I used to write a love poem

every time I had fun with someone. Then
she'd stop talking to me. If she knew or not she
might have. I used to write a love poem every time
you broke things. Had teeth. Rested.




Would you eat the food/if grown there?
Would you taste the food/if groan?
Would you sweet the wood---what toning.
And the sweat of the red of the rhubarb
the plan.



What was that lightening last night - was that heat lightning?
The half-moon about to be shut off by clouds.



What to do about a constant---pain if itching---white?
Don't catch me on your camera.




i wasn't talking to anyone! but they
and a vest and a beaded dress and
a lapdog
space it off apart from the fire it's too hot
no hot no it's cold, blanket round










i never thought i'd see you again
i knew it was coming if

the hug there


you were the way you is
the condoms in
the creature








it made me think about semen some
more gravity there
who is coming? who has already
shown? proper dressing?

we figured it out together i don't remember
what we talked about only
listening to you - convince him - that first
night that night with my hair short i wanted
no matter












and firewood
and good dry
firewood
and sparks and the woods
are burning the wood
is burning the sparks
are all on your foot