If you could see how many untitled drafts I have,
What would you think?
Shall I count them for you?
Upwards of twenty,
unfinished thoughts
and half formed metaphors,
poems where I just couldn't
find the words at the moment.

-- when I have the tenderness of a writhing dragon,
he will paint flowers across my throat

as though to remind me that fires are indelicate,
and that I writhe in a prison made of open space.
-- this man will not smother me with his skin
when we sleep.
-- this man will unhinge the door of my mouth,
and kiss out the bullets stuck under my tongue.
                                                                ­               ---
whatever thousandth day I awaken beside this man,
realizing I have become the flowers he painted
across my throat, by braving my throat,

I will, unchaining myself from the draconic worry,
bring him his coffee in bed, with a smile.

would you like an interface
at your place?
just in case
say yes when
in doubt.

Out of the launch pad and into
the bad lad or
is that the frying pan and fire?
try a
little harder

me and the yardie
got this thing
going on
see
like the
song
going on.
we sing along.

it will all be
grist to the mill
until his will be done.

but if thine is the Kingdom
where is the bell
and who do we ring then
to get in?

the stars
unravel
ink-ribbons,
the wind’s
ghost gusts,
fragile as
a spinning leaf,
tremble,
throw their voices
like ventriloquists
into the loomy dark.

Airs and graces?
just
give
me the paupers and places they go

let me stumble in the snow
fall in the rain
shine in the summer

would I do it all again if I could?
would
I interrupt the flow?
should the universe know me and
my pain
would I do it all again?