Night brings a host of ugly
Wounded things. My heart strings
A refuge of birds with broken wings
I am a canopy to sleep beneath
And wake with feathers in my teeth, like
When I think of the river I wished would flood
I think of wasps, of sweat, of mud
And when I picked those berries and kissed
My hands, and I wished it were blood
I think I'd like to spit at the moon. I think I may have
Left too soon. There was a beggar I passed
And never gave her a second look
I think of the lie that's holding me fast
I brace myself early when I know it won't last
I think of that photograph I never took
I think I might write that horrible book
But fear the damage it could do, because
What if what it said were true?
I think of love, and the shame I knew
And you, of course, I think of you