standing in the doorway;
you were so stiff but not uncomfortable.
the bathroom light on, us birds-of-paradise always meeting at night.
the hour of the wolf
the hour most children are born
the hour most that were once children perish;
the ultimately disgusting and idling wavelength.
my memory of this (or
these) circumstances is tragically excessive.
of course, there is now in which I recite a species of prayer, alone;
a verse known only to the fatal anomaly of
akin to the closed eyes of soft infants—
at last my eternal friend, we are complete!
a partial end by coincidence,
manipulating phenomena like it’s
the reel in a cinematic accident.
I shunned you on black leather, the way
Harold Bloom shuns Poe in the daylight.
all of this
carnivorous plight of laughter and
all of these
stunning episodes of decay,
they will remain paramount and
crackling with effervescence until the feral become
Our connection, bereft of fiction
is a primer for instance, a sheath of form—
empty romance amongst broken peanut shells.
I am a fly on the wall, and you are sweet larvae.