Communication

With these fingers on my toes,
I've tapped for studs for miles
to find the framing
of the world, this hell -
heaven built for two.

From you to me,
a panic spread of interrupted white lines,
asphalt ways to nowhere,
given-up ants on a hill above the earth.

You, who are so meticulous,
want to distinguish how far apart your knees are as well,
when I'm sitting in the morning.
Let me help you.
There's a man naked in summer hay,
passively smoking what you're giving off
scurrying.

From me to you,
a field of white roses and loose piano keys -
what I am hearing as you're instrumenting.
See, I'm trying to stay silent and listen,
because see you I can't.

Find a rope.
Tie it around your neck, bury an end,
throw yourself into yonder,
then at least I might glimpse an echo
from the paint on your concrete,
to the nuance on my roses.