I Don’t Even Know

I love you more, a coffin open and smiling. We place a wage,

a blackjack rite; and heaven merges with hell. Something

ensues, a brief of chips.

Indeed the liquor, our bulbous eyes—

and heart to brain—a must depart. I love you now and paint

a pose, a wicked voice, the hoist of prose.

We pause and love

but never see—a world of angst—a saint to sea. I cry for

love and wink and stir: a fur of blood, the drugs of woe. So

die and wail and soon return, an urn of life—the strife of

worms.

I love you wild, a sleepless web, the ghost of wings, a birth to

dread. So see us fly and dry a night, where mind to tomb, a

whiff of life.

My dust and star, a feeling dim: gravel torn, a vision grim.