Riot
I know we could make it.
You’re bashful;
You grin with the innocence a temptress feigns,
Spouting out outrageous eyefuls
Of an open garden gate.
Prodding thoughts that tiptoe up to high heavens
And crack down like lightening,
Like bodies from buildings when they hit cement;
You are the long-lost riot I dreamt.
You take hot baths and listen to Bach and hide under the bed;
I sit at your feet and gawp up at you like you were unreachable,
A star in the dust overhead.
I know we could make it;
You and I go together like salt and wounds,
Like a moth and the moon,
Like spools to a loom.
You were the fall that came for me too soon.
I only write when I am at the tip of unsteady introspection,
And can see death from above.
I only care for you because you are the last person
I know I’ll ever love.
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