Unimpeachable intellect
only levers the
windows
your mother closed.

                               A
well-planned city with
a word placed
subversively in the
heart of the
sewers or a string of
commonplace text
would fall my eyes
and persuade a sun to
set.

       we could've rusted
this world with hands
clasped or faded in
photographs noone
recalled taking.

pieces of distrust when
the friendship fell to
shards and
created holes in me
that i won't fix, out
of respect for
your eyes, and the
candor of your hips
and the hope of your
return that i only whisper
of in sleep

when the dawning comes
i ask that you
leave the moon its
path. your entire
life: its never recalled
what it meant to
set.

       has there been
but a word that shaped you?
lacrimae rerum,
the 'tears wept for those
who formed the world,'
fought for your beauty
before they even knew
your name.
                  
                   i
suppose they tasted your
omen on the wind's
breath, or else went
blindly in search of your
existence.

                 all wars are
an act for your pleasure,
and truthfully all
is pleasure, even this
confession. absolution
wouldn't won't in the
way i write. in the way
i writhe.

when you wake in the morning
chances are, i'm thinking you.