I deal
with the Jerusalem jeers
brambles and boot heels upon the chest
because I choose to be
inside the sardine can nest
practice altars and fears

I choose toy guns
rather than the illusions
of ice-sculptures and invalid-love
or winded wishes' ruse
wasted weddings' bruise

I choose (by God's whistling whim
and peanut gallery)
The art
the crooked
the crime
because it crickets inside
where the sigh and cry begins
where the biohazard happiness ends

Because I choose
this cypress curse
my quiet drums
my moving museums
for steady love's
rapture roulette
you can bet

I choose whom
and why, how, and when
just because I can.
I deal
because self pity
serves an empty meal.