Love

The idea, the word, the wish, the conjecture. High and low flying. The fog. Nothing easy or thought out but defeats you there, at the bottom of a series of rungs. Because nothing is so high-flying in our aspirations. Where dreams and bodies collide with such vehemence, a triumph is unlikely, only that fog. And the fog eats, or demolishes; because, somehow, that's what's chosen. Somehow demolition is easier in stress.

In My Mouth  

Love, the word: lush,

a summer night’s rain. 

Itself:

taut, brittle.

 

I had it on the end of a forceps;

bead of mercury, it escaped.

Love, the word:

I swallowed it.