The songs wore out; they rusted
the radio. The singers began to die.
I left my toenails at the beach, hoping
they would grow another body.
I would return with a better,
more expressive face.
I loved it when you said my name.
When you didn’t, I listened
to the sounds the world made.
The trees especially injured me,
though they wouldn’t have known.
When the wind arrives, it upsets them.
I would return with sand in my hair.
The silence, I expected.
I began to notice wind, I lay
on the floor. The words
didn’t come, but the sounds.
And there was a smell like crayons.
I thought about my mother,
as I often do. A song without words
seemed the simplest way to describe.
Sadness round at the hollow
of the throat—inside, and one good thing:
it makes you horny.
I’ve never believed there were
a thousand words for snow.
I heard a bird, wasting his song.
You see, I had changed my mind.