Confession

Do prepare to prepare to say something about the color of the leaves. The badger that lives out back. The geography of the place, or the breakfast you shared. Be prepared to talk about the tornado siren that didn’t go off in time. The syllabus left at the bus stop, how much you spent on albums from ‘90s punk bands. Your confession is that you never confessed. Find the last green in the backyard this late winter morning and look through it: pine needles fall off the pine trees and into the second person. Consider this a fair warning. All night you dream of something wet and unstable: your legs kick and your moans gargle. Here’s your chance to fix your dreams with talk. Prepare to examine carpet squares that don’t match, the room, then, a giant puzzle, one you have to walk through to solve. After three days, and even in water, tulips will hang their heads, and you can’t help but feel responsible. Prepare to leave the bedroom window open overnight. It’s okay. It won’t rain. If I may: I want to be wet with something. You are the hands in my pockets pulled out just in time to balance. Prepare to drink from this.