Blood Returns Always to the Heart Where It Cannot Stay
A book often falls open to something resembling truth. Try it.
You’ll see: cigarette ember, empty bottle, spitting red neon light.
The problem with another goddamn story about trains:
Stars are too cold & too far away to let in enough light.
Hotel rooms remind me of sex. You nightmare bedbugs to life.
Our worst-case cravings wax or wane based on the angle of sunlight.
You want “you” always to mean you. This is a human failing.
Me, I want a more active voice. Tangible. Visible in daylight.
You are lost amid butterflies: white & symbolizing death.
You are in the neighborhood of forgiveness. Heavy, then light.
On the road too long, our sense of art begins to fail.
Too much greasy food. Do I look fat in this light?
We are too aware of audience, we commerce our best selves.
No matter. We cannot outrun death, violence: these flashing lights.
We bleed & bruise & forget to wash behind the years. We leave
a place more battered than we found it. We never turn off lights.
You are the only state in which I break the rules.
You sleep & cannot sleep, strobed by approaching headlights.
This is love song. This is incantation. This has nothing
to do with me. This is the miracle of your face, bathed in blue light.