chopping up a poem
in smaller pieces
like an onion
whose destiny
was to be a rehash
                     passive aggressive
                                         growling
                                           rows
smashing syntax
out of context
like the rocker
shattering his guitar

just to reflect the vitality
only found in things pulled apart

and I'm anchored
to the thought
of your touch
shoulder droughts
and the thought
of strawberries
that stay stray
if refrained
from seeing
who they want
to see
constrained
from
this
company

the sky will be black

             like black are your big eyes
            and your eyes are the stars
           and my eyes will find you
         with the strings of clouds
         you knit me pale comfort
                   (and I a color theorist
                      we laughed remember
                        that evening your table
                         if you mix all the colors
                                          you get black)
   you eject yourself
    out of a black box
          at the end of the light
               there is a soul my tunnel