to
become someone loved, a keep-ring, an ankle, an aglet, surrendering into pains.
some panacea, I thought it hurt, I did it anyway; a feeling finding me, remorse
said afterwards, an aftermath, a blood-green agony.
the
penalty is its shelf, rage between us, so needy right in a second.
aside
a locket, sits a palm, its backhand bleeding, some shelter, so ghosted, to love
like a fretted beast.
so
pale, so brown, pure mahogany—white whispers, whiskers bled, a paw, into a
lyric, so fine, as in well, so hurt, feigning forgiveness—the black skies, the
brown forests, so much a laugh before crumbling: broken-back camel, grieving
stallion, a mare pregnant, alone, courting survival.
wanting
Love too immature for love just wanting its benefits to say those words, to mean a cad, so glad
it worked, when charms poured out of liquor.
just
needing soundness, just hurting to be loved, just needing to believe—in lostness,
in a bless-ed curse, in the series of the cellos.
we
seem pictureless, one can see us, one has misidentified us—feeling like shells,
or dung, making what we call love:
cellar
blues, jazz in patience, to laugh behind one’s head;
such
a feeling, to meet what needs us, needing adoring like fire on a cold night.
