Fresh out of Anger

How do I keep from wanting him when the anger well runs dry?

I sometimes miss my nothingness – no self before self without words giving form

How could grief rip through dreams like the sickle takes the wheat?

How could the cook not know we saw the sun before this bread pan?

When you tell me to rise I want to fall –

back to before –

In the first days where we held each other undressed,

honestly, with such trust.

I expound! and expel the splendidness that holds God has not turned this passion to stone as it looks back longingly

but sweetened the grasses where I lie jilted in repose

expecting day to break free the sun on a prodigal lover’s skin, as it again touches mine


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