From the Fort Behind the Conifers

After the fire it rains dandelions and we wear the fall like coats
		        of paint on some small immortal 
	         toolshed. The game is this:
			      You are a snake charmer. 
		        I am a pine cone. 
			      No tag-backs.
	         Our father knows Latin but forgets
		        that a burnt tongue
			      is a temporary death
				    sentence. So we stay outside. In the game. 
			      There are no rules
		        except that the children must always play
				    orphans and the orphans
		        must always play house.
			      The father is a title card. 
				    The mother is the postscript.
			      You are a pine cone. Welcome to my world.
		
	         O vanished coxcomb. Leatherman-ed oak. The gashes 
		        in the doorjamb implore us
to stick with one genre and master
	         it, but the kitchen sink is jaundicing, and these place mats
			      won’t hold water. 
	         Let the mahogany wink all it wants.
		        You are a God-green veil
		        & I am death’s middle child 
		        & the dog is long asleep
				    beneath the chickweed.
			      I am telling you: 
				    a bunk bed is a one-way train
		        of thought caught
			      close between the blades
		        of these slippery hides. I remember
				    the color of your worship. The light, 
	         young and mummified. I am telling you: 
				    the bravest thing 
			      anyone can do is regift
				    the wedding cutlery.