The Tartan

my life is no longer about love

it is only about the sun

I am an iguana

I run with my arms wide open 

to fling myself onto the hot grass

the book, the strings, the grass

when I see people I think about nothing

I write about nothing, I move my body

in the same four 

arms up

arms down

head roll, pirouette

I feel like this place is my condition

it is everyone’s condition

happy, sad, white bricks

and rain and rectangles

I love it here, my scales and my iguana 

you don’t have to love it here.

maybe your lie is about love,

happy, sad, panes of glass.

iguana on the grass, in the rain, on the grass