now it is on the walls.

i take walks but fingering wood and
running curved metal over my palms, tucking
them inside the lines (one for your heart,
one for your health,
one for, well,
you know), letting the dandelion
seeds fly up into my nostrils, a cavern of
white steam—

              it is not enough.

behind the trees
there is a bribe of white and
a million ants, drowning
in a puddle of me,
my mouth, my teeth, my ribbons and gums;
antennas raised up in  
alarm and faith,
and

maybe we shouldn't tell them.
maybe we should curl the phone lines
around our wrists and maybe
we should let her put the neosporin on,
if it steadies her. maybe we should
let her close her eyes and grip my flesh hard,
like she could squeeze something
out, absorb it.

              i said,     do you have a moment?
              you stopped (paused, hesitated, suspended, hovered).
              sure.   what's up?

he takes his hands, wrings them. his face
is pale and pretty. she said, maybe
i can turn him. she said, maybe
he wants it. she said,
maybe i could

distraction is a persuasion, but mostly
it is an art. i color my fingernails
blue and i do not look at the
wallpaper, the paint,
the scheming windows, open for
a world of sprinklers, car alarms,
and dust.

              (and now it is in
                 our/her/your
                 hands.)