city
On Tuesday someone said I'd look good in a sunflower dress, and instead of
responding, I thought of you
twirling in your room in a blur of
yellow, stepping
on all the sunlight you could,
and how we don't talk
anymore.
(Love always wakes the dragon and suddenly
flames everywhere.)
I don't visit home; I conflate you with too much
city , sprawling
urban megachurch with a Hawaiian shirt preacher
strumming songs about poppy fields,
the third fire of fall, ash
in the bowl of tropical Skittles
you set outside for ghosts, these streets
we used to walk that run like fingers through
your hair.
I watch my roommate rip up polaroids,
high school crush
crushed from the space above her bed,
trashed. Is this how
to bury a memory?
Coffee grounds as cemetery dirt.