if you kill me with your robots that chant tempests in pottery barns
you might look the fool who vanquished a perfect slave
free to disobey your stupid self hatred.

if you had the use of both lungs, and clung to fathoms of shallow harm
no harm but love's arm
clasping embraceful of your
lost god.

if this were the writ that hit veins in your extravagant cairns
stick to your guns; adhere to the wound

damage done.

loving you relentless, maladaptive to dem bones.