By E.C. Messer

When your tiny lines
are properly folded you, too,
must assume you are asleep.

Comets aren’t crystals
but hot, and heavy.

I might cut my own hair tonight—
it is that kind of night.
            A three-reed night.
            A three-star minimum.

Reeds and other night weeds
melt back into muck
as they whisk away.
I hum
            please, dear bark,
            embark with me.

Or dye my hair
            Soft Black.
Brown is real and red is loose.
A three-black night
with sparkling insides.

            Oh your little soul
I could coo,
though no cat licks my doorstep,
no body of yours with foxtail fur
slips through my mail slot.

I try to lie so my hair won’t muss.
You’d see me silly,
playing that orbit—
head to sham to pillow.

I might mutter
                        hello, paper sailboat
but I would never say it aloud
to the reedy creek,
to the nocturnal weeds—
            not even just to me.

E.C. Messer lives in the sunniest part of San Francisco with her husband and four cats. Follow her on Twitter @ecmesser. She would like very much to know you.

© 2015