Eulogy to Relationships:

Worshipped at the altar
In this
Private temple of sadness
Is a pocket full of sorry
And rainchecks, so grab
The raincoat, and try
To keep dry
In the metallic storm
And stardust of memory;

Stellar winds blow
And eons pass,
I am somewhere there. Particles
so ancient, I am made in the siblings of meloncholia and moons,
And our sun--Assembled into something human,
Something capable of

LOVE

Yet we still keep medusa on the mantle.
Yet we still scavange through the pasts' bones.
Erecting our great mausoleums to the slain tigers
And our own
beast of burden,

And what good is writing poetry in it all
If it
At the very least
Didnt feel good
To elevate the benign and still neglected moments
To a status
Of art.