I never thought i'd get used to a constant heartbeat
Keeping perfect tempo under my ear
But when that beat has a voice that brings up it's thoughts
I can hear it speed up and
I get nervous too and your ribs can probably tell that
By the way my breath stutters and words fall out cracked
But after all is said and done, I'm even more frightened
At the words i just heard
And the slowed down tempo
That forms a rhythm of wanted love
That sadly is only one sided

she is lost
blowing through the wind
always on the move
and nowhere to call home
she dances around
on a windy day
and maybe stay on someone's lawn
but she never stay too long
even if she wanted to
because she is lost
and too light
to fend off the wind;
separated from her tree
what will she do now?

a blue woman with sticking out ******* hanging
clothes.  On the line. not so old
for the mother of twelve undershirts(we are told
by is it Bishop Taylor who needs hanging

that marriage is a sure cure for *******).

                          A ***** wind,twitches the,clothes which are clean
—this is twilight,
                          a little puppy hopping between
skipping
              children
                            (It is the consummation
of day,the hour)she says to me you big fool
she says i says to her i says Sally
i says
          the


                  mmmoon,begins to,drool

softly,in the hot alley,

a ******’s voice feels curiously cool
(suddenly-Lights go!on,by schedule

Have you ever woken up startled
In the middle of the night

                   With the thought that your muse has left you
                   And cruelly turned out the lights

Leaving you afraid that in the morning
You'll wake up with no more rhyme

                    More often than not
                    These thoughts enter my head

Although I have often heard
Somethings are better left unsaid

                    I believe these thoughts I have
                    Would be better off dead

And these words that I now speak
Are they my muse or mine

                    And if the lights were turned off
                    Would that be that big a crime

When my muse tries to venture out
I believe the next time

                    I'll grab a hold, tie her up
                   And be the one to feed her the lines

I would crack it open over the sink.
I would split
               first, the stiff, waxy skin
               then the inner membrane, papery and white and fleshy
and reveal a thousand rubies, nestled in their pulp.
And as my hands glossed, sticky and scarlet,
I would press my index finger to the center of my tongue
and **** the sharp juice with such ardency
that you would become
               the pink in my spit
               and the thick in my mouth.
I would take careful notice not to lose a single jewel,
but to fully consume.
I would not mind your seeds
lodged between my molars.
Perhaps I would even keep them there as long as I could
               because you are my favorite flavor.
And perhaps after your juice has spilled and painted maps on my arms
and dripped from my elbows,
I would piece the shell back together,
tuck it in your chest behind your ribs, and close you up.
And perhaps then,
               when I had licked its walls clean
               when I had emptied its insides,
then there would be room for me.