I knew a nurse once; she woke me with

wet kisses—she held my heart together.


I had a bad November. Hit the road way too

hard with vodka and lianas, all shudder &


ground swell, never harming a hair on its head.

For a while, she pitched a tent in my chest,


battled the nature of my being from within,

till a sun woke & stretched, parted clouds


in me—disease of the shrugged

dusted from frail shoulders.


With kisses, she spoke through my breath,

come morning, & I, kissed face all woken,


took her in every moving swell of skin. A

poet born—two green torched eyes &


framed to burn from heights so great, she’d

tire to climb. Not the nurse I once knew—


holder of broken things; she of the kissed breath,

covered in sheets so wet—No, this climb is


for the breaker of organs—

she knows who she is.


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