You cannot drink my stones.
you can only hate me the way you do.
your loud flowers
have their steam and bees
as my glum trumpets bark fog
valentines...
and

blooms.

This house is on fire.
This house is on stilts of clay
and brick mist.
This house is in flames
that have no devils to accuse
only hell's breath at rest
in our mouths
and the joke
true.

This house
in on fire, my love... so -
long live the thing that expires
for no reason
save weakness and bald
fate....

This house is truant
and too mean -
to sustain a lush
despair.
It barters no
heaven's
gate

for the one
that pleads abandon
but rather
comes undone
where our knees
creak
from unanswered
prayers -
that our gardens
mock
with sheer beauty

and Nothing.