Love
has boundaries
which
are temptingly immense.
You
can’t go wrong.
There
is a problem
with
the arms that catch your
fall,
all
this tirelessness
you
have yet to exhaust
and
will not hear of destroying.
* * * *
I
should not mix with
cocaine.
The
unthinking man's
defibrillator
it
parries calm
and
I am
rendered as
one
foot in the grave
jumping
on the spot
crawling with feedback
caked
in Achtung
- - - -
The
heart is time's ox
making
you a consort
meaning
that you are here.
It
racks up life
and
the
causes of hooves.
* * * *
A Cultured Left Foot
The
dead call collect.
You are
running with the brake-lights.
I am
not all here once more.
You
guessed five grand on tick
would
smooth out love’s feathers
over
the course of one spring.
Are you
dancing yet? No-one can tell.
Angels
make you antsy.
You
tramp across their wingspans
throwing
caution open
composing exit-wounds again.