I hear you had an affinity to ink.
As I did
to whatever laid below
the creaky kitchen sink.

The first words
filled with the highest crescendos,
the blurriest jokes,
and an indifference
that connected archipelagos.

Your open pastures came sooner than fit
and all the cows were shocked by it.
The foundations your tendons
helped meticulously construct
were but a marvelous crack
in his narrow-minded speck of dust.
(And how it pained me every day to see the rust.)

But there was always a chrome polish
waiting patiently where you least expected.
And the kindling revealed your shine.
And your sentences naturally rhymed.
Your shores,
full of plastic bags and
oil-stained rags
had found miles of red rubies.

I would freeze for her infinite summer,
but I stand here motionless-
oozing self-doubt
miles away from her.

Darling for you I'd pour the Milky Way
from the sky onto the page,
because only with every star
could I even begin to shed enough light
on the description of the Galaxy
in your eyes.

His dog chased her
through the woods.
The rifle can **** from
three-hundred yards.

Watch her leap logs
and sidestep
sticks grabbing
at her shoulders.

There are three Gods
in the woods,
behind any tree.

No one is as ruled
as the lawless.
No one is as sedated
as the frenzied.

Sympathy couldn't be
measured in screams,
but measured
in her breaths.

Beyond the
honeydew horizon,
the senseless cease.
The half-life of eyes:
her only escape.

Where the tree-trunks
are furnished by the
candied corpses.
Her feet chomp at the
prostituted ground.

She will die, here,
whether she lives
or not.
For what is stolen,
stays.