be
it nectar into tenderness or anger sweet like venom—to arrive early the steps
creaking the mice running—such ceiling witness, a softer kiss, to have felt by
tiny ocean. our abandoned furniture our forfeited dilemmas upon a bed made of
cotton: such memory foam by scented sheets upon wooded frame. I ask of you
three leaping cries or stature too philosophical while others were most
contented. those conceited eyes, they punish me, they speak by fires. sunlight
is rising, we sit upon asphalt, we play with snails—some pace as giggling in
passing to achieving our sternness. your mother was schizoaffective or some
stick of dynamite so pushy or determined. you played piano at five—you hate
piano, or poetry, or poets. something vacillates something mourns you have
loved a poet. by tragedy of graves by nurtured silence, you have grown into
eczema. I play in pains. you hate your head rubbed, but you ask me to rub it.
you hate spaghetti you loathe garlic bread, but you ask me to make them. such
light perfume, it’s meant for one, you have been one with several. I walk
forward, always looking back, I have returned to your window. by future tuffet
or granny’s pork chops, to have adored your grandfather. so tragic his fate
such a remorseful staircase to have arrived seven minutes late. those feelings
humble-out. those ferns are sturdy. daffodils are suffocating. we sit across
tables, looking, smiling, laughing rarely: you begin shouting, something
internal, it has pushed passed its dam. I reach forward, you reach forward, you
rub your side with my palm. tears fall pouring from sternness, recoiling into
childhood.
