I am bruised, swerving
though my feet are planted
I am anointed with the
fragrant future
I press it to my temples
to my wrists where the
molasses moves along
We debate our way through
the headiest of conflicts
the wordiest hypotheses, but
in the blue-black cold, our
sweet lips lose their honey
and all articulation
A product or consequence
I speculate
of this crushing solitude
Aching lonely bones in a city
a crowded dance hall
a dust-cluttered closet
I swallow this hope whole
Its impossibility is unbearable
weighty, leaden, even, and
from where I sit
there is no dawn approaching
On this frostbitten night my
extremities are creaking, and
my heart
my heart
27 October 2009
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