a sly act of auto-homage.
I am he who hears himself
only to silence the thinking,
the beating heart,
the hurt and the heaven.
my malaise
is myself
and the matter of my living;
morning and night,
mourning and nightmares,
where words are wonder
and I wish to be letters
left for old lovers.
the snow isn't enough
to bury me in the background,
with richness ever promised
and promises ever given.
my fight never finishes
for a pugilists named for nights
spent giving.
dance the dance
of coyote romance with me
in the weekend's middle.
where we spin is up to
where we die.
once or twice.
three for the shelling,
but better before future forgives.