fine and delicate lace

pretty lace, and somber-delicate,
the prideful work of uninspired hands,
count the death of chronos’ teaching
with orders of $7 coffees.

and yet, i find still,
your greasy face, your smug look, your flaunting dowry,
and i tremble, weakened by a moment’s alacrity,
that i should have ever fawned for sicker milks-

how direly i want to rise up and be
the lotus from mud, or at least moss from tree,
and how pertinently your face doth gaze through,
my myopic transfixion, my death liquours-

yours, i can only imagine,
is the noonday walk down flowering oaken street-
for cigarettes and a pregnancy test.

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Unkempt flower beds and roaches on a vined-covered wall

whether it is we sleep, dream, and collide with desire with sickening, wet thuds,
or whether, in shorter moments, less precise, less pressing, less puerile,
we see those things which seem where they should be.

if, by some chance, you, or one of your friend’s hands,
came to divine those somnambulist’s pleasures,
please remember to drop some postcards about it-
as you walk away-

yet i will wander
like bullets with no powder
into, and out of, languid, grabbing fields

and perhaps my greatest hope,
as i am torn down by gripping shrubbery,
is that you understood what i meant when i just couldn’t do it.