Leave scars on the cheeks of her man.
Scars deeper than any left by angry
Fists, or gravel.
Deeper than those slapped on by wedding
Ringed fingers; now naked.

A woman's tears.
Each heavier than an ocean.
Deeper too,
The chambers in which their source and
Remedy rest.

Outside the walls of which
Water falls.

Each drip-drip-drip
A vertical sea in the uncynical/
Cynical eyes of
Timelessness and male poetry.

Subterranean; flowing like a constant river,
Covered in metres of memes, and hidden.

A man's tears.
Waterfalls falling behind walls of mountain's flesh.
Poetry in forbidden books piled high and burned

By censorist historians.

You pick a scortched piece of page from my footprint,
Blow on it faintly; as if dust off of leaf gold,

And read, when you think I'm not
Watching.

You don't have to worry about
Sleep- you'll get more than enough
Before driving me to the doc's,*
She reminded me last night.

A mental note to text my boss
In the morning.
He'll understand. They always do;
Humans as full of love and worry
As anyone.

Instead of cranes, concrete trucks
And workers in black and yellow
Like bees outside my office window,

I see pinetrees dancing with winds
Warmer than yesterday's,
Beyond homefields of fresh-spring
-Light-brown-

And she breathes heavily on the
Sofa, shielded from the early
Afternoon sun,
Relieved from white coated,
Warm-handshaking sharing
Of news; none but reassuring.

Streched out like a cat mid-nap.
A beautiful, deflated balloon.
Breathing; not bleeding.
Sleeping; not anesthesized.

I worry not about sleep.
Hers is mine.

I fear not a thing in this room; world; vast. A path as wide as Earth-
I have none other to follow. Why should
I find myself ravingly inclined to throw this bucket into the ocean,
haul it back in until my palms bleed and with the intent of an excited madman
drink it all until I regurgitate shards of broken dream, regrets and utter salt.

I have listed all my achievements, all the houses I built, all the cast-iron-flame-retardant-
bridges I sat ablaze without a shrug; floating away into the air-waving
|new-life-death-the-universe-and-everything|
fumes of a well-played Molotow Coctail. I fear not a thing in this room.
When I die, I'll rest my cranial remains on a volume of pure epicity.

Loves and lovers won and mostly lost. Victories at high and lower cost.
Faces, sounds and scenes, more wild and blinding than I'd ever seen.
I cannot see in past or future anything considered missed.
No laugh withheld, no sin I felt I needed to resist.
It's only me: Little God. And I have come here to exist.
My diary. Is my Bucket List.

Throughout her adult life
all of the land shaded.
Feverless islands where the
aged couple sleep.
Never once have I hosted a party. Not once have I
told you, I have
been hurt.