lviv (every star in the sky is an eye)

i write poems when the sky looks like a sheet i could pull up and peek under. i detail the ideas of people who know the world is beautiful, in theory, but can’t quite wrap their heads around it; people who write songs about what it feels like to pull off of the interstate and watch every other car pass you by, what it feels like for the only light in your life to be taillights; people who wonder what would happen if you wrung the sky out like a sheet? if you hung it up on the back fence to dry? would you finally be able to see the stars from the strip if you squeezed them all out into a bowl?

when i say i want to give you the world, i mean i want to build you a pillowfort out of nighttime, i want to string every streetlight on a wire and hang it around your neck, i want to fold the valley hot-dog style into a hammock for you to sleep in; i want to make it rain on you, like soak up the lake with a big fat cloud and make rain happen for you, and i want you to reign over me, take me in, let me out, sleep in our valley bed. pull the sky sheet up over our head. that’s the world i want to give you.


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