for H. N.
To be inside the lush
of life I climb alive a tree
outside the guarded rise
of hospital where you receive
your treatment. Attached against
my back I have a crate of caf-
feinated soap and aging
pediatric drinks you drink to sink
your sweating. The nurses
tell the officers
that I am not a safety
concern but I am still
concerned for your bald return
to safety. In my tree, I eat
peaches from a shelter
can I later use to plant
with hands around
my mouth and yell
political obscenities
instead of finally crying. You have
youth and roaming cancer and I keep
an articulate distance between
allowing myself to think of that. At your
last known apartment, the traffic throbs
a swan of ruffled rivalry and everyone forgets
an election has occurred. If I admit
to you that none of our shared reticules
have parachutes that means
we’ve given up. Here at last
is the tidal wave survival
recital we use to prove
there’s music. You will accept
the invitation because
there is no other way.
