i have sense

(vector) no

form. i will

wake up to

morrow changed

as the day

ceases at ev

ery footstep

and born again

are we. i am

not the same

roses bought, plastic

boxes, clear, stacked

in grocery-store fashion-

could crush them

in my hand-

fragile and

malleable (modern).

the petals adorned

thebed.

could have been

for anyone, now.

love is served

in single pieces

scattered from a

hand, not thorn

bushes, drawing blood,

old as a

stonewall.

to

under

whelm me,

will do.

to build

too tall

under

mines

all and

it own

s me.

it's no grave matter that
you write fossil poems
underneath
skin-soft facts and
clothey dross giving way
to their own kinds of
mutability.
i want to read your bones,
to boil you down to
stuff found in books
about the past,
check you out of
shelf-death, hard cover
pressing dirty hands like those before.
i want to know you live
and dig down through your whens
to trace behind skeleton pens,
i want to read your bones.