I am sick in my self.
My fingers curl
around the stylus I keep with me
at all times.

A small black plastic taper with
which I tap out pieces of my
unwholesome history.  Do you
remember when I loved you?

The green moss grew only
on the north.  My sorry
adventures were always
South.  I mean to mention,

last of my breaths that I
have been sick in the
clever ways my sorry aim

took you to my lair.  I fed
the worm of imagination
with the cookies of my soul.

You are delicious and I
wore my plight in full
view.  You called me.
I replied in tattered
sentiments.

The rotation of the earth
holds me forever South.
I can never heal the disease
of attraction.

I will love forever the sounds
of love no matter who,
no matter why.

You are a beast of my jungle.
I wear your skin like camouflage.

I bivouac where you are and
leave at night, no note, no
whisper of sorrow.


Caroline Shank
8.30.2022