2. The Singularity of Some Things
I’ve stopped reading subtle differences, like which
side of the punch I’m really on,
knuckles bruise lips, teeth break knuckles
and they’re so closely pressed together that I can’t tell where you
end and I begin and you said,
“we’re bordering on biblical here and—”
what was the rest? Oh,
“Less love, more leather jackets
more eyes like blackout curtains
more rough bodies in cement stairwells
more scrapes up our spines like war wounds and leaking flags.
Pass on the apologies, say no to the tears,
Write poems across your fists and shove them down people’s throats.
If we all go around genuflecting all the time,” you said,
“We’ll run into something eventually.”
And damn, if I could have turned everything you ever said into a poem,
I’d never have run out of things to eat
and I’d still know what to call you.