Turns out I feel my body
more than I should. My eyes dart
like a small animal. I’m a museum
of necklines and cloudscapes, a heaven
diving into the wrong hard mountain.
Soon a beer-colored sky will sneak
up behind the fence. I toss my hair
to the street without permission.
A couple in matching pea coats smokes
electronic cigarettes across the platform.
I am a tiny robot like them
but there is no one to love my robo-heart.
On the last day of the year I enter
a scalding tub and think you away.
It is too cold and too quiet for me
to sign language the sky.
Right now six people are in outer space,
and you are growing smaller in my mind.
I just want to have a heart for this, to be
a shaved dog, begging at your heels.