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the south of it, quick and
ruined up to streetlamps cold as ice
make it slower than,
quieter than,
straighter than the million tracks
what little good
in a lowly pit
that rocks itself to sleep
a black front a wall of webs
brown water lakes and gritty teeth
make it happen to me
can i desire this thing
when it's murder to believe,
murder to be leaving
no skin like this no original
to join it
and fortify a stray body,
half warmed up
half unrepaired
not the summer seventeen, not ever
the plans it shatters
I can't love it if it cuts so deep
not how it burns, but how the burn heals
not the time it snatches from
finite places, the green air, the dying flute
can i wait for it
if i rot denying it
no, i don't really ever
begin to change

Submitted: Friday, October 26, 2007
Edited: Wednesday, April 20, 2011

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