it is hurting like winter.

rough scratches. skedaddle comes to mind i would but i've to wake up in hours and continue the work and keep allowing the world to say things at me. i'm very dirty and a little alone. there's not much to say so i fill myself u p with the bile. it's gross on purpose, i use that to comfort myself, dunno if i believe it (yet).

bryce is such a good thing to happen to me. so is polina. i miss them somehow, i don't know why it matters or how things grow but i'm very afraid and very glad.

/(090401)

gentle snare around her.
make it
quick, your
flurry of pain
a doorjam for fingers.

waving her hands,
keep you in pieces tucked,
far, across to the mouth,
lace and ribbon underneath,
tether spanning decades of
grown and gone. beautiful

lovers and drunk lovers both are
indiscreet and exhaustive. you won't
carry them in crumbs
in coat pocket
no, nothing like a poem.

here's a frog,
no more girls and blankets but
a shivering saltrimmed
body of water,
a pad of green like foam ink like platform
rubber and synthetic sea,
keeping her, keeping her,
keeping her abreast.

nothing so eloquent
with minds that turned away
words not so eloquent as to
dissolve or scatter
or crush leaveslike
in your paw.
nothing sewn delicate,
nothing of words, those words you used like
"abreast" and "sewn."
somehow heart remains,
your salt and the tongue and the water
and hurt.

to think her things were kept
naturally, gently--
wondering why she
was bereft. but kids at the side know
why she would anyone left.