If you come to me I’ll give up.
I’ll paint the lilacs on your hips.
I’m not good anymore, & he knows
You’re in a room wiping down the sex,
Washing away what most deny.
You told me what it was & not we.
As if immune to grief,
I rarely tell—the middle stream
Of extremity & less surprise.
I wasn’t so fractured that I’d talk
To strangers & spew fire.
I wanted peace & clarity & whatever
Without being deceased.
I craved a safe cloud,
A bright brook flowing blue,
Adobe brick aged red.
I trusted dried mud on boots.
I trusted the conditions for change.
I have no story.
In meters of pleasure
& the stale mundane,
I still don’t believe in the news,
& I could never concede
That any of us is happening.