The Inventory of Love
Retracing the trajectories of her lips,
Rebuking the claims set down by her lost eyes,
There has never been a more sorrowful count,
Than the inventory of old, used-up love.
Pages and Birds
I mistook you for a torn page,
But you were a songbird,
Not broken at all.
.
I mistook you for an angel,
But you were a window,
Clear as bleached-out days.
.
I mistook you for the north wind,
And so you brought me home,
But not forever.
Vows and Tears
Taking out those hurtful words,
One by bloody fucking one,
Throwing caution to the birds,
Always on the goddamn run.
.
I had never done a thing,
Better than the thing I do,
Even when you got my ring,
Nothing other than a coup.
.
Blistered dreams and broken vows,
Hurt much less than I once thought,
Shattered so like farmers’ ploughs,
Love’s disease that I once caught.
A pavement where poetry goes to die.
