The wrinkled dome which houses this land is a
Lightning splinters it. A reproach.
Two years and a day after we
I watch you leave with her,
the carnival-haired lovely, with her
2020 vision and deliciously filthy mouth,
and my chest is a torrent of mint leaves.
There is an ire, a
curse beckoned by candles. A
It knows no lull.
with their furred tongue,
their insolent sleep.
An adjective is not just facile. It
is a manacle.
it is better to say the
essence, to say, simply, the sky is beautiful today
please, don’t touch her, for, you see, I love you
you’ve taken something from me and I want it back
instead of reaching always for the poetry like
First published in The Dirty Napkin