In response to "Untitled" work


Be mine you sweet filibuster

I have almost finished blooming--yet
skimming my pores is this dirt, it pirates my viens, and I lie about

my colors: hazel is true, blond is false and so
I fall from the roof tops the firemen come

with their biceps and duct tape
putting me together again we all pretend as

everywhere the atmosphere blows into our heads
it lifts up our bed sheets, presses into our skin the dates of

our deaths, firings, heartbreaks. Let’s thank god
we can forget how our grandmothers once sang to us--

and you. You are like everything pointing that finger against
the street obstructing the center line

as I stand here sleeveless
petting the dahlias.