The message is fractured,
the one hidden behind the sky,
or is it behind your eye
that the words have been scattered?
One black hole summer shattered
my youth’s drive. It didn’t take much.
But I wasn’t alive like I was before,
which is why I kicked in this door
barring my way to true selfhood.
One day, we’ll all grow wings –
fidgety wings, rotten wings,
unusable wings clinging to the air
with a rabid hope. Say this is the scope
of human love, then what?
From above the treeline, clouds
descend in a rage. This is the age
of ball-point pens. This is the age
of Zen Poets exploding in koans.
I have everything I am staked on this,
and I’m shaking to my breaking
point, fingers lingering
on your ample hips.