I rotted with your good intentions. The fine feelings and sacrifices.
Watching television; listening to radio: reading the news, and worse novelists.
You were picking your left nostril. Scratching your voluminous arse.
You were arguing who should do what, first. Last. Or not at all.
Such atavism thinking about love as if it were history bound to wound
or repeat itself.
Dull, smell. A seminarian’s task.
Forgetting your name in the tide that calls back men and women.
Buried in a static which, for everyone suffering from exposure, is choice.
You seep blood like the sinewed carcass of a neighbor’s bad dream.
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