Love Will Make You Late for School

 I pull your body off these pages,
 torn.  It died a raindrop’s death—
 a little paler than before,
 never blue.  Today finally feels
 the complicated structure
 of our crimes.  Look at the skyline—
 a little bluer than before.
  
 Unhappy, I clean the bones
 buried beneath the language barrier.
 On a canyon road, a cave
 and sweets—gorgeous—ordered
 with ease.  Whatever she wants.  
 Whatever and such and such 
 and such.
  
 There is something at the bottom 
 of the pool, but we’re not sure what.
 Its loss is a poor bird carried under my cheek.
 The complex structure of our contagion
 dissipates in tepid drifts, 
 and I have become less aware of my sleeves
 and their many inhabitants.  It is the abuse and confusion
 of something being painted over.  The illusion
 that you’re making something new.
  
 You promise to tell me about the fruitstand,
 the church.  You promised 
 on many occasions.