the force-fed fever or the fury,
the moaning or the excessive worry,
the albatross I drape
along the shapes that the shades leave on my waist
when I’m alone & in sudden need,
some emergency that forces me back under the sheets
in a pretty heavy dysthymic fit of
we choose grapes & mud slurry
over contact every time.
we choose as if we have to:
impenitent thirst or the gentle mercy,
the lie or the glory,
my god, how could you! or I’m sorry.
pause when agitated or doubtful
(or sink your mandible heart on them).
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