Of me parade in my fears
Of what you might dream.
I have seen their photos & the magnified
Negatives. I have read their mash notes &
Only in print (illiterate, tedious), does
The resemblance disappear.
Baby, am I too the carbon copy of some
Long ago ghost's ache?
If so, bless the aggression of my jealousy
Working your clay flesh.
If only the soul were so malleable,
The mind, the heart.
All of mine is the Karma Sutra melting
In abandon beyond technique
In the creed of ironing your surgical scrubs:
Open aortas full in our look.
Are your other loves as aware of such need
In our time, the passing headlines death
Spectres of ink?
I put blindfolds on statues, red ribbons
On chests, black arm bands as custom
For the unseen purple hearted legions of regimes.
I take your seed & wonder if it's spit mixed
With the liquor of another.
I iron, darling, I iron our scrubs
Before we pass, doing duty, in the stalwart
Wards of so many who are us:
Wheeled pietas
Pealing
Internet
