Maggots boil from under her skin.
I will never see her again.
I have heart aches that
stem from mistakes.
I count them as they
leak from her skin.
Her eyes are raisins;
I will never find what
they last captured.
Cheekbones higher than
my song. My finger brushed
along all that was black
and seeped into her back,
tripping on her vertebrae
like a boy frolicking home.
The cacti stand still--
while I feel quite ill--
standing in an ocean
of honey.
The people stand still--
America is ill--
standing in an ocean
of money.
You stand still,
too afraid to kill
an ocean of hate
you tolerate.