Long Face

We are apparitions, formed
by seafoam and stardust;
our bones turn white to gnaw on;
rushing tidal sweetly incessant song
swelling in your funny head

And in the descending
slide of sweet violin
your tragic hands cup mine
and I have to ask:
“why the long face?”

If I could surgically remove
whatever saccharine song dilutes
your blood, and take it into mine
I would. We root our feet into
the soil and cling to old, sad faces.

We submerge
into our strange cabins
surrounded by indolent moths
who are soaked and trapped and glistening
crushing beneath the calluses on our feet

Long Face, I would pluck
strings with fleshy fingers and bend notes
for you; but you’re content with
your secrets filtered through the corner
of my lip pressed to yours.