Cannot pretend  
to be  
a prophet

If I lie with my arms in the ocean,
maybe
I’ll drown

the sense you left me with –

irrevocable, little ways to remind myself
of all the James’s yet to come –

I called myself a
people person
because (like the way some other God

made men from the mud)

I’d take all the ****
buried in this perineal stare of mine
and make another lover

To call me his
Apollo.

I cannot pretend
to know the secrets
stags fell with silver tears.

Perineal tears to take
my ******* breathe away

  
or suffocate me the way
fog always used to do.

Still,
during stagnant blue hours -
I had a rabbit heart, a rabid mind,
and your ghost makes the illusion
burn so much
faster that now

When I wait,
I wait only for the
thunder.