i had words with a silent thing.
i won the argument, needless to say.
but fewer trumpets were in my bag of air
too asleep to be awake
with the things of you
strewn about the palace
of my misery

I suppose a jewel is vacant
spoiled by the sun and no longer a friend.
the way the things of you
pinch the law of my skin
like a twist in a maze of love
grumpy with northern lights
percolating forever
because love
can.

. .