July
I'm drunk from the nightingales song-

white dress
gardens
watching the fireworks
explode in the sky,

they soar
like acts of war
over the mansion,

and a spider bites into the cold veins
of my right wrist

a nocturnal suicide pact

and I am dreaming
in love songs

streaming ashen and vivacious
like the left over
warm trails of a comet
dilating in someone else's orbit,

but
July
is
gagging
me

the streamline of air whispers:
it is passé
it is gauche
it is pointless

to enter into your diary
the blistered tongue
description
of what he's done to you.

I am sweating you out
like a drug; July leaves
you sticky on my palms.

At night I dream of Moscow,
Philadelphia,
the east
where the ocean cools
the horizons
that I am too unfamiliar with

later,
you grab my wrist
and watch the mark bleed
you kiss the scar forming on the outside

stroke the blemish tearing on the inside.

Lover, the fireworks soar
but you tell me to look away,
unconvinced,

July
like
a
muzzle
is
silencing
me.