You are a rhythmic tornado and I am the wrong kind of light

There is almost nobody here inside our regular bloom.
The sagacious meaning of a frightened light
leans outward the window of a delicious resignation about time.
If you are walking mid-thought in the tiny yellow field
you might discover you have so few initials
and even fewer distinguished lashes over a hanging eye.
I am speaking of the masculine disquiet,
of a pictorial that isnít relieved to be its own home.
Sex is a drug kitten and I will pull apart your anxiety
with my anxiety and I will pull apart your thoughts
about a physical generosity with my own.
I am completely struggling against your armís length,
against your perfect musical legs straddling this resting hemisphere.
What unknown electricity is being harvested wildly
by a perennial river? How do we know who to rescue
or where to eat our complicated lunch rocks in the rain?
There is a small moment wherein which we reconsider history.
We breed to coordinate our diamonds discreetly
under far flung gentle stars. Please scrutinize our night birds
with excellent care. Why we are a series of
functional mistakes about lions is not a secret.
Here is a considerable debut of darlings on a tide.
Small wars about the inner peace of particular dancers
contain the slow disquieting music of circular grief.
These birds are eliciting square-shaped love,
timing the snow perfectly into a sky-shaped season of elegant meat.

We are having inadequate feelings about a small spectacular year

I would love it if you were fantastic dishwater
and I the square root of our inaccurate ceiling.
These heavy dreams are cooperative and fainting
into a second floor apartment that isnít nearby.
Concerning a lake in the distance, I am leaving you.
Concerning a light pole and a ruckus and a bird,
I am maybe leaving you, always leaving you
and conditionally leaving you without my American hair.
This man isnít you on the street cleaning vulnerable nickels.
This man isnít you on the trolley cloning a childís finger.
He has made a thumb and later another.
This part of life is half disastrous and half soup,
half miraculous and half light blue carpet against a red wall.
I have a desk to give you and you have a desk to give back. 
I have a small dark number shaped like a rocket.
You should walk away as if you were never here.


Eszter Takacs is an MFA candidate at the University of Arkansas. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Thrush, The Adroit Journal, Word Riot, DIAGRAM, Forklift Ohio, Cloud Rodeo, Ghost Proposal and ILK Poetry.  She is the author of two chapbooks; The Spectacular Crash (H_NGM_N, 2013) and Together We Will Talk Right Down to Earth (The New Megaphone, 2014).