you rent me. i collapsed into
archaisms; i was born to make
drapery of grammar.
the commas i hung on bedposts
were uncomfortable with your
pall-bearing. they splintered,
muttered and ellipsed my
wanderings—the wet streets
and the eyes that followed.
i pretended many things:
not, this time, forgetting,
instead, put-on stumbles and judgment
sputters. the sheets were tired
and i was rumpled in the mornings,
though you didn't see: too busy
folding shirt collars and
making dicta crumble.
you're so good at splitting marble,
at mocking parables into falseness.
the poems i carved for him are
absolutely wrecked: they went down
on a raft of bergs,
dragging boats with them into
book bound crevasses.
so i wrote you this:
it's a mess of anxieties that i
tried to knit and
wring into un-valleyed brows, and
i'm sorry. you deserve better.
but i'm not capable of more
because you drained me and
still leave my letters
beneath the table
unopened. and all i have now is three years
of breaking and days i can't conjure
because they slid into an angry spring,
a head full of dreams that chase tales of irony
and screech at halting endings.
i can't remember a
time when i didn't want a
ship to commandeer and
sail away from here.