But I want the world to get
louder. Loud like seven,
like orange, loud as hyacinth battling fuschia in some back garden.
I want the world louder than my ear crumpled to your throat
in this cold room because
how long can
two live inside a cell
while snow is falling everywhere and no one understands
what is happening with the weather?
Florida. Loud as garbage.
You’ve allowed me to listen—
each vocal chord colliding when your mouth
the heat out for weeks
and you know we could wake to an orange sky, angry and fast as
Orange is mine.
Mine like my mother’s face.
Mine like my beaded box and the constant mandarins on the kitchen shelf.
Please, something, rise like a sound, a sky,
a man raising his head in orange
to an altar.
Give me anything: Garbage. Seven.
Ducks tearing the sky with flight.
urgent, louder than anything inside you
and I’ll wake up no matter the sound, the color.
I’ll dress in the half-light of formless clutter
not turning the light on. I’ll move from this close listening.