When you were young you must have looked so old.
I had almost forgotten about you.
Little bluebird of mine, little snowflake
like a tuft of seeds or water evaporating.
Don’t talk to me about what you heard
there behind closed bedroom doors, your fingers
stuck and wiggling between the carpet and the rough bottom of the door.
Or how your head felt split in half.
Or where you laid down to die.
How do you lapse into something strange and
How did we get here and how did the
face of the mountain find me in the fire?
Gulping the green, sweet smoke.
I know that you are a sleeping dragon.
Put your lips here
bite the apple.