YOUR TOTALITY FAILS YOU

 

 

Which is it—that long shadow dripping down the day, or

the royalty of cum stains blooming when finally you are left

 

alone, is this a dream of a wrong-coloured horse, a darkness

to die in, the last stretch of granite before you reach a peak

 

of a small country, a sapling broken rear-ending your way

out of a mistaken turn, some swivel at the question

honey, doll—

 

it does move like that. Like, slipping the dead flowers off

into trash though architecturally sound. Like, if I want another

 

drink I’ll get it myself. Like, you can twist neon to prayer

but you’ll still gut-think motel ahead. Some questions suffer

 

easy. Some questions offer more than two types of light.