Tuesday, June 3, 2014

As a Matter of Routine I Often Do Not

My habit is to have erased you before
blushing not only to myself.

To love you inconveniences musterable bravado,
unaccustomed as I am to having a defense budget.

Mourning turns away from ritual because of rasping.
The furniture belongs here where you planted it.

She tends to skin. She limbers toward antagony
from which offspring rise unencumbered.

Make me a million that I cannot form from scratch.
Allow me to introduce intentions I have learned.

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