J o a n i e C a p e t t a —

Magenta greenhouses of lower Ontario

Whole sentences live in my red striped shirt,

like ,,,,,, is crush a name actually ? for the unsociable and embarrassing

erotic: that spills : into living ?

Having been a tectonic cusp between agreed-upons, life

now warbles in pink imitation of the sea ,,,,, or of love

against walls which might be deep underground or far above ,,,

curved ivory plastic and its window which ,

every window .. I’ve ever looked through

my adolescent ,, my child ,, and my infant are here with us in this seat

the sun flickers bc of ,,,,, you , these transits.

When near the end New Jersey and all the rest are lavender,

it is relation lashing me fast in the world of this day.

There’s so much waiting I could wish

. we agree to put off all arrival. . . I hope we never get there, bc

I am open in this collapsing union with time bc

bc somehow it is in this wait

really far from the mundane ground ,,, in solitary experience with colors

who are untying from their usual signifiers ,,,,,, that ,,,,, possibility assumes its shape

as a fact of the heart ,,,

that without you ,,,,

here ,,,,, ,, i might be anything ,,, but ,,,,

you are so, , i’m this

,, language

for: I carry everyone I’ve ever loved into each successive breath

hold every type of love in a single moment

in this unfolding each chapter ends at a shore

between jetties during the day and again at night;,, ,; ,;, I don’t know yet

what to do

these days,,,

these days in which it is certain

the sun ,, rose,, the sun ,, set,

and we were together.

Each outfit this,,, winter was a secret ,, ,,,, message, I refuse to decode

entirely entirely

still in this spring there is

question: I almost hope

we could meet for the first time

I don’t know what

I would wear ,,,,, or say

red I am yellow I think blue I say purple I feel green I love

this poem is orange,,, it is flickering like the sun and orange like the sun ,,

it is setting it is symbol it there is only one verb left to use

it is red, it is plural .. first person , it is fact,,

these are not our words we’re speaking, (imagining a small future)

but they totally could be— (I imagine) one of us says uncanny and then healing or something

free to say whole sentences and mean not worried about confusing

our ,,, inoculation ,, as public bodies

with this faith

uncovered by a mutual place (here) ,,, and color ,, ,in time

Anywhere can be a horse latitude

Stay in the water so long!

Coldness from my mother and her heart valve,

Stretches nights into a weather of looking away.

I count it on the floor, my hour with flotsam,

The rave poster blue with its dolphin and important vibes,

Drugstore print shows a boy who grew then died in his red hoodie,

I have one too, a tiny pink horse washes up,

Beautiful beach but watch out—I notice

Infantile and wet emotions. Rot is like, just wait, in this compressed midnight.

This is how I imagine love.

The horse born with empty eye sockets can see

The faint blood memory—turning the world on the axis of a single perfect field

And the Pacific at its center.

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