Confessional Poem for Mark Leidner to Read

Sometimes in summer
a riot is born

& once again
we are skins versus skins.

Our truth is marching off
into the ocean

or a small room
with no windows.

I believe—

in every dream home
a blank stare.

A star is confused
for something still living

& I live to forget this.
These days I remember

you are so much like me.
I am quite nice.

Staircase wit.
Weak stomach.

Wires for temples
& photos with engines.

I have the best of intentions.
I believe in torture

& I will.