Insecticide #9

If not read,
I still will write.

If not exposed
to the glaring sun,
I still will undress for you.
And my shadow become
a metaphor for loneliness.

And in Winter’s cold bite,
will I sever your hulking
appendages; and make my own scars.

Here, beneath an avalanche
of dust,
a betrothal
in rusted iron bars,
twisted and malformed.

I give you the birthed star
you have been waiting for.


Mustard seed,
spilled in the night,
disunion with a fertile
earthen body.

But better to drink up
the heavens than to waste a drop.

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