sometimes you’ve got a smile like a scar
that’s how all my well-rehearsed isometrics of cool
eat shit_
—-
a hint of death
in your warm, placid limbs
your womb
of sweet bee eggs
_ can you excuse my lack of awareness?
—
and those backbones
such trouble and loss
they have suffered
yet
still accept
me
as lover
so silently
so compassionately
