I am a failed thing
miscarried out of Hope by Worry.
The matched words that should balance it all —
I forget the language
and am ignorant-deaf outside of
my pretty storms
my valiant, brief flowers.
I am not one with happy dew on my toes.
When that cold comes to me, I keep it jealous-tight!
and am bored with what comes after.
My soul is the Lover: loud-moaning,
belly flopping in puddles, gorging on strawberries,
mapping the cathedral labyrinth of your absent face.
My obscenity keeps the heavy leash:
I am unsure and repellant —
grey but hairless —
glistening-sticky with Fear.
I sit like stone on the corners of houses
and waggle my tongue [BLAH!]
and bare my teeth,
and break my claws,
and keep things back
that belonged here before me.