Every star has its double, different coloured

blood cometing at length. How you will defeat me,

with a scythe or a ladder, a hoked up piece of trash

untucked beneath a raging plinth. Your feelings,

juiced on perforated, in which troops of gentle

thought invest. Come, dear friend, life thinks

it’s spring. Now you have inflated and made me 
dependent. Now you sleep, now sit, tender feelings

subside. The lack of printed makes us paranoid.

Winter brings summer to bed with leafy interludes,

quiet fictions tend to piety, no dehiscence of intimate

revelation, the debutante paper unfolding the debited

sweet trolls insist—siphoning joy with a foetal

intensity keeps us fresh, compounds our pains

beyond our proper share. Sounding historical,

the seasons digest, our poorly written biographies
caper sufficiently, seeds from the dandelion unhook

the tortured abundance of cliff-top harmonies.

I stand at the rim of a system of infringements, codes

and punishments to rival the ancient Greeks. Talking down

from a position of differential, the coxcomb coral of six

fingered bounties makes love to the idea of the voice

making love to itself, establishes an iconic, incurable

distance. Now I dream during the day and write all night,

sewing a template for the region of your delirious.
While you spiral freely in the conundrum of lost territories,

harbourless wanderings distill my ingrown love.