My Gift On Your Bed

Lightning cracks the roof—

Shoves the knife in walls. They bleed

fuses. Your face? A fan

snapped shut—I see that fear.

Snow and coral charred the sheets.

My scars? Testify.

Open: I’ll clamp your throat with dough—

breastfeed you lion-strong—

then rip Nietzsche’s teeth

from your jaw.

BLACK CATS IN THE PARKING LOT

Unwanted flesh: taboo.

Trees witness their birth—heavy with dark.

Wicked rascals? Green want,

barb-tongued. I crave your knuckle-

walk,

lagoon-waist, twin torches

burning through forgetting—

living shadow: bearers of

wild light that no longer breathe

in a grown up’s vehicle heart.

Iron Pilgrim

Iron pilgrim, gouging heaven’s charred tin plate—

You, like me, exiled? Fleeing friendship’s poisoned bait,

Or envy’s thorn? No.

You scrape south—granite-cold—

Mast groaning, timber bent—

Free: no homeland’s ache,

No wound of passion’s blade,

No exile’s weight.