Chin Music

I wake up sweating in New York
and hit my head against the grand piano
good morning, last night’s broken bottles
sing into the dumpster bound for Jersey

And you’re climbing up the red bookshelf,
where clouds of dust mites hover
like my next words for you

This town is all rafters, I notice after buttered bread,
and all our hopes lost up in them—
pale maps and gravel rooftop secrets
embedded in our neon scaffolding

The sunflowers died and their season left,
the fruit ripens faster than anyone can eat—
sirens carry someone else off as we smoke
on the roof, wishing we were high enough to see
the reason for the car alarms

Blue windows long for faces pressed against them
please, take more pictures of me young
for when I wonder