Sweat and Esteem Streaked on Bulwarks

Sweaty esteems / to pretense, / poems in tongues, / years, / but then again, / should I keep track of love? /

 

The fog is thick, / vatic, but / not at all for sure. / Moments, like time, / ask little of me; / I find you wasteful— / a lame being— / my life was rooted, / to the beds of your fingers, / as seeds.

 

Temp not— / want not: / the vapor hates / as plastic and / pressed to / teeth, but / collapsible, / succinct; / I wish only to catch a breath / from your lips.

 

Mark my words, love, /// but please don’t lesson the blows; ///

I’ve learned so much /// about the worthless, /// about love, ///

by letting you wrench, /// by permitting an apex.

 

Art / splayed / across canopies / as greasy handprints, matching / the impressions you make, / on skin, / pretensions, / we march at night. / Clammy teachings, / like wars on words, / a page, / like several pages / impaled, / streaked on bulwarks.

 

Like a lush, /// a whore, /// dressed of bores /// [crashing-fucking bores]; ///

she poses tragic, /// rather starved, /// forged for less, /// a surplus of words. ///

 

I gave, / not another, / for you are not /

what I gathered; / as maybe, /

I had yearned / you were.

 

 

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