things ain’t real out here. just fake.
the amber gasp of a slow meme in a chamber
of your last laugh.
every day that records your release from a nightfall
is a jot in a book that a worm
was reading… to the dead.

your love has taught me things that have no god.
taught my circle how squares are corners
without everyone.
a lovely bit of chance in the dis-truly random.
a game on a plate at a banquet of
fruitless antics.

i walk on the moon as you walk on my face
like a Russian at rest on a self-interest
eating a dynasty of “what next? “
i keep nothing but a slavery
in my war chest….
but you

keep nothing
at all.

sometimes the burning is an ordinary thing.
a Fahrenheit so low that Hell looks up
to refute the Sky you want.
and the dead wings
you use.

there are doors that baffle keys
and there is a God.

My love made you the opposite
of exactly what love wants…

from me.