he is a butterfly. you must not
wrap him in air or he will
hesitate. and any short stop
will cause him to shatter.
and if this is the last thing
I write for love then, our days
have passed (in our flour and
fluttering, it all passed). our
love reduced to pocket change
and backseats. this ever melting
piece of california is drifting.
not into anything sweet and new
our wines grow sour in the heat.
our love bends, like broken legs
on a table. (that love
was our love) your love,
was that love.
and if you think, with your fingers
a mess, that I will stop, you are
wrong. this poetry is toxic, I am
disease ridden. a typhoid Mary
of modern poetry. and nothing
can be done to heal me properly.