Maybe I'm just no good at what I do.

My clouds all have silver lines
hung with fat steel
hooks
into the puddles
casting reflections
into the tunnel of mirrors, the fish swim by
sometimes they bite. Those nights we eat.

Maybe I'm just no good at wanting you,
maybe my dreams of you are wishes
that may come true but make you say
be careful
be careful of what you

wish
for.


We eat enough, we come too full to talk
and stuffed like plucked birds -
forever flightless.

Maybe I love you but don't think I do,
the only way I could have you all
is if I ate you whole

(I would cover you in honey first.)