When I remember you, I conspire with you.
now I flee you.

I ran you across the heat of my arguments:
snippets of friends, trials of unfortunate others--

As I stretched out in hope,
I fought you blow by blow.
Your mind should have eased off by now,
not constricted like the strangling fist,
empty angry space--

I touched your every pore,
crimes of the disinterested mind,
the stones of ambivalence dropped into my stomach--
you slathered more, spreading your reasons
like the trails of slugs.

Whatever you think,
you will not sway me thus,
among the condescending blind.
Your path is not sprinkled with wildflowers like mine:

your tongue is the angry chatter of sparrows
which pluck and bicker in wickedness--
which pluck and bicker, in echoes keening
the helix from our sides
to the lake of fire.