sailed across the pantheon of hours, an early spring of languor beyond time, beyond history, to bring the open fire resolution, striking lightning in the killing fields, haunting chorus rising under the sunk cost,
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a supplication:
supple surplus skin
“You don’t help,” I say between tortures,
and he (because art
is evenhanded, masochistic)
gasps, “Neither do you.”
my high school search history:
a stack of wishes
Best laid plans of Sylvia Plath lovers go awry.
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let’s get this over with: i hate form. rules
confound me. i break before i bend
most of the time.
blank.
field.
& bigger & louder — & more dangerous
& the machinery of — love roars