and sometimes love is a stranger
walking up behind you
dressing the nights face
and you don’t wanna look around
until it’s too late and you turn
-around drunk
pouring it away like forgotten wine
when really the gift has no age
and never has the taste of anything nameable
she is the hum that torches words
as they are not like her
where the word hunts, this stranger
is fed by a drive on the open road
that knows every part of your skull
that moves through the parade,
and takes you too
war
turned away
like bugs on skin
where it sweats with no remorse
and rains
somewhere else.