Bluntly
Love:
it
is like
being
dirty
and
rain
drown;
sitting
beside
a
dumpster
dodging
crooked-eyed
felines
and alley
snakes
that
creep
quickly
on
the hot
ground,
as
an army of lice crawl across
your
eyes
and
dig
a
thousand
little
clawed
feet
into
the
glossy
surfaces
and
this is
why
I don't
write
love
poems.
Snow Angel
After
thirty-five
years
of
wintertime,
I have
gotten
used
to "getting used to", but
I
still
dread
each
day. It’s like sleeping
under
bedsheets
next
to
a
cold-legged woman with
no
desire
left
in
her
breath,
or her bones.
Minimalism in conceiving a temperamentally solvent dissection of life's sublimation. Congratulations!
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