poem: flora/fauna memory

his greens were more blue, the sad sweep of the trees and the pavement
running to the river; curling around string lights with bleeding paper
ghosts taped over the bulbs. the brown staleness of becoming yourself, inside
yourself and alone, except for the demi-god robots heaving an adolescent gasp
through the television screen. this is all clunky: to find good poems I must write
bad poems. I take communion in female work/life misery: my weight, the break-room
donut I should have ignored, the wait the wait of a slow afternoon. this is more
a diary entry. my greens were more yellow; I can write for the west the way
someone outside and inside it could, I am the little boy at the window I am
the party inside. my greens find howl/haunting in books I read now – thin girls
harming themselves or wanting to, she is having an affair. the low moiling of reading
too much and thinking how a cut up your arm would look, the insides puckering inside
and a swell of red between two black curtains – I am not thinking this
now! but my greens were yellow, they come in glitz of summer, dandelion weeds all over
your swinging feet. his colors are unkown; he slept and died and pulled himself to God in
media I cannot hear, in an oral history lacking specific detail or
contextualization: was the room of your remaking a bedroom that reeked of sweat or a
clean open window or the slow swallowing noise, tongue licking lips, of a rainy
autumn afternoon. show not tell. but the mystery is the
muse; I search I search and come up lacking.