There your eyes, god, madness sideways.

What will happen to you? Mushrooms fear

the sight of your greying brow. Once,

you claimed anyone could write poetry...

I love you – you would not accept. Challenge

the life out of me – out of your town of dead angles

and maternal milk. Too raw to speak the real; mother’s

infernal keeper.

Or,

you – infected by her blue-drenched heart. We, the same

swirling orphans desiring strength and reason –

you know the answers. And yet it’s easy to build the

wall of cotton. Hatred is a soft sock of yours;

all too simple to abandon the memory of what

is truly good – the years of comfort.