I'm speaking in
leaves and with dirt against
trying to sleep
repeating the hot hum of heartache
& stopping to breathe
I have been
inside & under
this horrible robe /
its ropes tied too close &
I'm starting to choke /
breaking-down wine & the whys to find
fumbling's curse
repetitive lure-slurring prose
in my own faulted purse
this is a
tree and then paper
a bird and now blood
& all of the bones you've swept up
love,
stick out of the rug

he cursed me
in clumsy cursive
on a note left for me to find
"you are a child in this world
where we always have to part
with the ones we love.
be happy."
he was 27, tall and dazzling,
a full chinese calendar between us.
we went down on each other that night.
an interc(o)urse of sorts.

parting
is splitting your life
(i'm a child on this earth)
like an earthworm.
both of us wriggling away.

parting
is breaking
(with the ones we love)
a bone.
no telling if we heal.

parting
is going to pieces.

(be pieceful)