count me

if you can count, count me: deliver my hands (two)
from the scarlet tracings of late autumn, deliver my
mouth (one) from English grammar rules and then
my wingtip brushes (four) will paint you picture
of my cousins (eight) on seaside in dubrovnik.

if you can count, count me: the travesty and mirage
swiveling under my eyes (three) and you remember
bad seeds of my past: nick cave and bjork and a room
with wood paneling where the piano once was. and me,
my thoughts chink apart like bronze drawer knobs (six),
and you, your mouth stays open when you're close to me.
deliver my hands (two) from the scarlet frays of my scarf,
deliver my mouth (one) from the highwaylines rules of
English grammar. my grandmother (one), my aunt mirjana
(the rich one), and tonko (one) give me love that i send you
from under the red rooftops (several hundred). can you taste
coffee and spice when i write? you are supposed to. count
me. i spent the whole day in the old town and now i am here.

p.s. it says that "trubadur" is "hard jazz caffe". ha.