Poets (We Do Li[n]es)

My letters are like poems,
my poems are like letters;
whispers sent to unknown men
time has forgotten, failures
my wounds haven’t. What’s unsent
often ends up unscrewed, words
refashioned by Fascist hands
down clockwork throats into verse

thrust out of oblivions
of colliding kisses. Worse
when worn, bruises blackening
lips make wet mouths paint loud sores—
unfashionable flesh torn
for no purpose—my papers
burned alongside evidence
of lawless love’s lost future

hurts beyond measure. Heaven’s
messenger bleeds whenever
zephyrs come calling, rushing
in from the West praying their
autumnal breath; thick, smelling
like peach flesh pressed in sweat pored
from cold hands broken off an
expired lover’s breast before

anyone can remember
the date—sweet indecision
preparing for its winter
installment: a new season
in solitude, inside earth;
the perfect place for us when
we poets insufflate worth
from the lines our veins open.

‘Oh, him? Perhaps he waits for
his true love?’
A crowd at once
gathers before me, allured
by my loneliest presence;
witnesses, they each offer
up their lethal summation,
pressing into my mind their
killing, ‘His poems ruin.’