“I’m always knives-out,
a chain of razors folded
behind each gesture.
You who loves me: are you
paper? Or plywood? Or stone?”
–Christopher Morgan

I never write about blossoming but
I’m seeing inflorescence in
dejection: my censorious
portraits cascading and
my unpolished toes
at the edge of the kitchen
where the carpet meets the tile,
an unwashed bowl of almond butter
next to my tea,
empty half of a house,
my patient sponsor and the
tail end of my
frantic texts    public mania;
an affinity for
inscripting every feeling
somewhere permanent.
begin to plan the next
black mark on my body;
a large alligator named
Milo. I’m flagrant when
offended and they
say I turn violence

I could have been
sitting still,
saving face,
explaining through private sessions,
watercolor,  the grace of
long sleep, ten am and
fresh and lucid still
immured in dream.
she mentions  doing the
dishes         she mentions
deep breathing         

I see a bud in the daffodils
you left,  a water filled horizon
that distorts my perception
of what “leverage” really means.
and the big picture,
obscured by my choice of lighting;
all fluorescent,
            it’s cheaper
blinding        everything overdone
with explanation and
cyclic editing,
constant litter.

I liked some things about us:
two dirty bowls to wash
but saw clearly.
we were soaked in
soft lighting and I held
your gaze,
your torso,
your incogitant rage
that I managed between fits of
self soothing and pleading,
mouthful of bitten tongue,
some little good timing,
ready for
          hi there
some little soft haunting.
for you,

a toothy smile,
walk for miles,
fingers crossed for some
little soft revenge.
I think about you
every now and then.


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