eden

red apple moon over williamsburg, sweet and low

everything is poetry and poetry is grief

i devour an author’s agony

all scars are open wounds and all your scars are mine now

there was once a time

i brought a bouquet to a knife fight

and left with

all my stems severed

today

i sidle home from the bar in the rain

ache carved out of the marble i had reserved for want

i hope everyone can see right through me

i’m not here;

i’m not here;

i’m not.