I did it again.
I forgot to tie dandelions into crowns
as I sat in the dirt writing the occasional
I forgot to change “dessert” to “desert”
in the part of the story when he leaves
the table to message his new darling.
Dusk seems to be the only time I remember
to turn on a dime, to the beat of my own drummer.
Dawn is when I dread swallowing drugs
and dancing with cliches.
One day, I forgot to keep drinking in the deluge
of your daring words.
Now I won’t dare let them disappear in the desk drawer.
I need your daunting verse the way a dahlia
needs blackish purple to be beautiful and dangerous.
I need your distance the way the darkest night
demands stars to disappear.