I’m searching for the perfect fog to fill this perfect landscape. The bridge is sleeping again so we stare at each other to see who blinks first. To see who gives in when our lips say volcano and erupt. Your body says join me on the rooftop tonight. So we sunset and sundown and wait until our summer breaths wrap their thighs around each other. Tomorrow and tomorrow’s tomorrow, let’s abandon our desks and spend every sunrise in bed searching for spoons. And in between the arch of your back and the calm of your sheets is grace is another open window I disappear through. The world lives on and there are more plants to water, more fridges to fill, more languages to discover. But I can’t let this go because you are the last fossil left in this world. You are my glass collector, my fortuneteller. Our names will never be the same and you’ve left me more than enough statues to discover. If I should have a future call it a moment devoured, a moment remembered, moments of you. I love the confidence of your evenings and the way you can trace a home together, right into our palms.
Anhvu Buchanan is the author of The Disordered (sunnyoutside press 2013) and Backhanded Compliments & Other Ways to Say I Love You (Works on Paper Press 2014). He is the recipient of the 2010 James D. Phelan Award and also received an Individual Artists Grant from the San Francisco Arts Commission. His poems have also appeared or are forthcoming in Columbia Poetry Review, Cream City Review, Harpur Palate, The Journal, kill author, The Minnesota Review, Parthenon West Review, word for/ word, Vinyl Poetry, and ZYZZYVA. He received an MFA in creative writing from San Francisco State University and blogs for the Diasporic Vietnamese Artists Network. He currently teaches in San Francisco.