I
think of love, knee high in pash, even a youngster.
We
died a nightmare, embedded as pretzels,
a
two-tier bed. [and] more to beauty, unaware fully,
to
desecrate beauty. [and] every song, to stream the
blues,
to muse a thong. I love you more—as
years
break
pride, where humans appear. I
fantasize
—to
see
for death, if only an increment. Its
flowers and
fevers
and favors, wrung dry, to give birth; for life is
cycles,
and blatant U-Turns, to shift through traffic;
and
oh so tragic, this miracle love, to withhold life;
where
pain is grief, and grief is light, to owe you praise.
You
never knew, to give for life and scarlet wounds. I
drift
the mire, as murky as marsh, to ponder positions.
It’s
the wiles of love, and herbaceous plants, the sweat
of
ether. We built a tomb, to climb for in, to relish such
death. It’s a pier of passion, a pregnant
gesture,
loaded
with fevers; whereat are scars, and terrible
dreams,
a
humble salutation.
