In the grave of this love,
food of dust,
and dish clatter, do not eat...
but your dishwater left its mark on the hardwood of my heart
like an old rental in a Mexican neighborhood
and I make it to the flea market.
and I set aside time for winter.
and I go back on everything I've said.
This evocation of you,
it is as near to me as the pain of biting my tongue, and to be bleeding.
It is as sweet to me as a sacrifice which rescues the day.
It is as thick, as broad, and as vast to me as the beams of sunlight
I see in the forest, illuminating dust carried in the wind.
It is as pure to me as ceasing-fire after bullets and bloodshed.
This evocation of you,
it is just as bitter to me as my first bite of chocolate for baking before adding sugar.
This evocation of you,
it is as vivid to me as wounds in the Ides of March.
It is as high-pitched to me as the sound of bug-hunting bats at dusk.
It is as deep to me as any lady's purse must be, and deeper than any sorceror's satchel, for sure.
This evocation of you, it is as tight against me as berzerker Vikings outnumbering.
This evocation of you,
it is something in which I'd be so happy to drown,
only to find myself resurrected so soon thereafter,
having been inundated with a hundred thousand volts;
were my lips to touch and hold my face against the snowy blossom of yours, and kiss you.
You, my darling, were so smoked and dried.
You were the wine,
you were the saddle,
you were the jailbreak!
