I will put you
first
--which tends to
be the fatal flaw--

He doesn't know I will
write poems about him,

since I've stopped writing
and have stopped writing poetry:

and what is a writer that
doesn't write? a scribbler,
a note taken and thrown away.

He doesn't know I'll write
poetry for him,

and my mother and grandmother's
voices chorus warning in my ears:

don't be the one who
loves more

A moon princess
prepares
for her coronation:

She wakes early
every morning to
chant ancient songs,

remains a light turned
on, a bright good morning
from winter to spring;

leaves offerings of her
tears and laughter
at the alter with care;

fasted, washed her face
and hair and danced naked
in the stream from day to night.

After turning away from
herself she turns
back with rosy cheeks:

A moon princess
prepares
for her crown:

she wears the webbed
melody of singing
stars strung together,

she hums and resonates
her body begins to harmonize
her voice turns to gravity:

she can speak
she can think
she can hear;

her hand outstretched
to the people, her
love refined

Avoid force with
such tender bodies

Bound board by
board of senses  
and sensations
mek it set like cold
to snow

So be tender
with sensitive skin:

A coat keeps
warm in winter wet,
Stay singing and soft,
jovial in Springsun

You were once
a grand influx of air:

fluffing up lungs,
puffed with oxygen.

But the inhale has
quickly become
a held breath

Pools filled
with pennies

drowned out wishes

Children splashing
in the shallows

Soft spots mark up
the body and spark

plugged up: an implosion

syrup sweet weeps sticky substances
like love, chuunibyou, and other delusions

dreamed: in language strange
spoked, soaked in sulphur

a beautiful man without mercy hath thee in thrall

The microwave heats
but leaves a cold seep in the
middle of the meat

You and me
are like red
and green:

Good for
Christmas

But what
about the rest
of the year

I was once a classically trained pianist:

My nails cut weekly down to the bit
and internal tongue ta-ta-ta-ta, ta-tee-tee
ta-ta, tom tuned to the metronome.

Daily hours meant:
bent stick straight up
scales and etudes then
sonatas and scherzos and waltzes and nocturnes and preludes and arias

and movements memorized
by fingers that knew the way
and weight of adjusted arms.

What is the value of
a wrong note alone

or amongst many,

of memory incapable
and fingers fallible?

Who am I naked for?
Truth be cold and so

shrivels the little member
with a whimper and perks up

******* ****** dry in
the night because the benefit
of co-bedding is not having
to wake to feed

a cry-- a simple sing-song slur