In my eyes there are all the sweet things poets
have ever said about death,
but loneliness begs for fire and a peanut in the evening
and poetry is brought as if, as if I had just kidnap a hummingbird
to drink water from my dying cells:
jellyfish as coagulated blood;
my voice sounds like a voice even though there's a heart
in my mouth and since love always brings Easter eggs
for Christmas it's been hard to discern
scabs from flowers.