Clever. Sometimes I'm just too clever
for the logic of my pen. My hands better in supplication
than the subtraction manifest in solemn rites of division
though I am not yet conquered by the aftermath left in
the spongy wake of lovers and starfish, trying out
walking feet in the crazed
boat of despair.
Why do I get the feeling
that all is lost but the sea? You say I am full
of myself. Well, who else would share your bed?

I'm just an odd bird dulled into squares and triangles, a
companion solicited by the ache of roundness.
My lofty head
did not rest upon your shoulder. We left separate impressions
on old silk sheets.
Yellow chalk outlines of how poetry died.
How love
squared into nothing but the seduction of morning.

~A