nothing like the sun

all it took for me was a game of cards on a train at night

and then, later, she was sitting with her back to the window and I was watching her talk,

watching, not listening, because when she speaks it's like a carousel or a shooting star, beautiful and violent, ceaseless, shining motion.

she says, "there are a lot of things that shine."

she is shining now, like a mirror flat on the grass in summer, under the sun.

words- sear, flame, burn, glint, rush. angel in gold light.

she says "are you there yet?" and laughs and her hands dance, bright white blood-winged birds in the slanting window light.

are you there yet? grey skies and empty trees I've seen so many times that they begin to not exist.

don't fall, queen of spades

will you play out this hand? are you still looking for the king of hearts? don't fall.

and i'm here breathing in a world that's soon to be destroyed by sky. i don't want you to find him,

and it's like a papercut,, like blood in my mouth

don't fall, queen of spades, if it's not real- not for him. ( i hope to god it's not real)

I wish you'd stop looking long enough to see

)the unspoken rhyme(

les yeux de velour- a pretty quebecois expression- when the teacher mentioned it she wasn't looking at you, she pointed to some boy in the third row,

but I was looking at you

- a song. light of some kind.

and how long can you know someone before you look up and realize her eyes aren't the green-grey you always figured they might be, but blue like sky.

then there's a silver knife (oh, it's not a real-real knife)

sometimes i can pinpoint exactly where the knife slides in, kisses my ribs, licks at my jugular,

carving lines in my skin. if anything hurts it won't be the knife. if any of this leaves a scar, it will be her eyes.

this is the knife i'll take and hold, blade to my belly, still, with a pretty handle all made of gold, with a silky shivery thrill, and hands that should shake, and a mind that should break


and then there's driving the steel right in to the hilt, so they can see what I am really like underneath my skin.

(look for another rhyme;


-she's nothing like the sun,

but she's blinding.