Bent like a syllable around a breath
speaking your name is life after death takes
from existence all but the last of health’s
consolation, making the best of fate.
Constructing a perfect night leaves me ill
un-fuck-with-able until my mind’s dust
settles, covers ev’ry other pupil
in filth and wisdom whose lessons kill us.
A natural imprecisionist, your
interest in all things mythic makes me
tremble, fills my quiver with those splinters
metaphysics makes more legendary.
If only my sickness, this wealth’s crippling
perfectionism, afforded me love’s sting.