He has shown up to my living room
as a pile of boxes.
You are 19 brown boxes,
stacked correctly, you are a fort
and when examined closely
you have been beaten and tossed around the country
by women in short shorts.
Must i cut you to let the colors out?
I have asked these boxes to come
and crawl under the sheets with me.
Their mouths are taped shut by someone doing business.
I apologize for the business you have endured.
I touch the tan ridges and smell the dead trees
and synthetic glues of packing tape.
I lick the labels until your name and numbers splotch together.
All beautiful boxes are hiding some sort of buried offense.
Hiding deep in the packing peanuts
resting in wads of bubble wrap,
there is something awful.
I can kind of see it through the plastic stuff.
I do not touch it.
This phase now pops in my head:
"You're healed. You're healed, now walk with me."
I wanted to make you my human,
to take off all your clothes
so i could make you more naked.
Shut up and
I'll make you naked.
Shy boxes.
I am as lost as the texts for the origins of evil.
My hands move on you as sleek and aimless as a psalm.
I expect to open you and find the zippers of daylight,
or a pilot's license and a pair of keys.
Nowhere is welcome.
I lay the boxes in the shape of a robot and lay spread eagle across them.
I am with you, boxes.
Your skin beckons mailmen to marvel at your tender paper tigers.
They tear into the night to suck at your packing slips.
Your spirit rides me frantic like a junkie.
I scoop one small box into a backpack
and I head to the Hollywood Bowl.
I had to pay for two.
I spit wine into your seams.
I open you and there is only broken glass, a map and a note"
"All former lovers become blurry lessons.
All jealousy is a jail of lousy reasons.
Lay out the glass. Open the map.
Walk to me. You are healed."
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