there is no summer in my skin but the bees and the lint
clinging to the flop sweat of my invisible dreaming. clinging to my notion
of anything Other than this.
i have clover in my teeth and James Joyce in my marrow like a cog
in fever… I keep leaving you where I found myself at a loss.
but i return with a poem always
to breadcrumb you out.

but here’s the thing….
my kind of disrepair is a healing cacophony that has the music
that kills the lover the most. Life is the whirligig of a purpose
Loving harder than a grave mistake.
And all time is a momentous conclusion
that continues.
without a Cause.

Just my kind of broke.

II

there is no summer in my skin… only January's tongue
kissing dark and cement.
a slim hemisphere of wide eclipse
on the thinkless edge of my enormous
insignificance.
i come from a horde of unhinged things
where rabbits run like blank stars on garters
the Creator gave to women
for to hear them
bargain… in a silhouette
of extinguished
hard loss.

Regardless.

My kind of broke is how i know this
for no reason… and my charms
clink in the soft spot of my terminal Forever.
Mocking the Everafter
of a wrong Sun

all night.