“folded, portable carvings of a heart…” and Flies Love Where They Land

 

 

I.

 

folded, portable carvings of a heart

in satchels, we cart around

in cities that never sleep;

in the hour, don’t fold me,

don’t put me in a book

i’m not ready to read

 

course in appearance,

sad that’s too much

or maybe

with the right words

it could be enough;

i see to the end of all blues

 

a pulse of touch, as

if skin on skin is how you know—

what amount of love is left to give then?

 

II.

 

then touch me where it hurts,

touch me where it throbs—

the love:

 

we love like flies,

wherever we land;

we buzz around it and die

or slapped down

smashed against thighs,

smeared into bar napkins,

thrown into trash bags and taken out

 

to live on corners,

near streets,

broken inward,

baked in the heat—

 

a couple of parched tongues;

where sorrow melts, and

furrowed eyes are sad,

and love spills

 

sticky on a hand,

and left to stick,

like flies:

landing and shitting

wherever they can.

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