These trees quietly listen

and inhale the tobacco smoke

from those who need

courtyard light and twittering,

ambiance by the ounce, half, and eight.

I wish I would die so

I wouldn’t have to decide

what song to play at my funeral.

I want the sound of birds

and the junkie’s moan

and a single flower- not in my honour,

but as reparation for all of my damage.

Sweet as honey bunny bleed,

see dark eyes and it’s a dream,

you’re a dream and I’m a crack

in a white wall for children to pick,

I would’ve moved but I felt sick

and sicker, then yawns of bouncing belles -

our noisiest decoration -

so pour your wine to a closer soul,

dipping fingers in her bowl,

tracing oily paths and peaks;

don’t be afraid to stare in the mirror,

or to be angry - such is life.