every lamppost begets a graveyard

a thick bottomed slice of burnt offerings

to the insect gods

upon seeing this the blackened birds drop

eating, now,

from a sugared spoon

 

the wind comes from nowhere and just holds me

a manly duality, with a laissez faire sexuality

and when it drops those birds settle on my

fingers and cough for my attention

far too many of them to mention by name

 

while fifty scented tea lights

choke their way past goading me

to rhyme that with…with what?

go on I dare you…just as I’d love

to sweep the hair from her face

but I can’t touch her, ever…I dare you

 

can you not tell a murderous shrew

from within a deep set dream?

yes there I learned your fingerprints

by heart, each sharp contour

sliced their relief into my face

drew sketches in blood

 

blood which now charges me with every crime

and holds me rapt

in the firm grip of uninvited intention

 

here I am

the last thief on the tree

shaving my own rusted crown

as the punitive pure picnic

at my feet