My Plume Drunk / or Love is Fiction
For Carleigh Takemoto
I find Macaw beneath the lattice of bone, dozing the third and fourth bikes we rode last dawn. I only find crave in the turn when luck buckles my shoe strap to keep me from drowning. I don’t think of luck anymore, not until now, when it teaches me how to look the right way on film. And now I’m enamored with the green sea. Luck tells me not to remember it again. Macaw reminds me of things that I bought me, parachute sleeps storied of mule deer from our mountain, but when I come close, touch her head, she murmurs love, the violent umbrella, the last pour rite there that luck gave me.