when things cancel,
I interpet her wild
from New York to Florida,
from hollowed heart
to fist, and it is lonesome
out here in the types of places
GoodWill stores and Red Lobsters
are fancy as forever.
when the world is black-eyed,
I want each line of each poem
to be a neighbor tasting your skin,
so when we dance
it turns into death.
when the wait is over,
I want to bite God on the collarbone,
and make tired eyes hungry instead
at a second site of blood
before we walk home
and have a fight out of uniform.
when the end arrives,
I will be waiting on pancakes
and pretending to deck the halls
because the day will be done
and the rest will be coming on
while the devil is swimming
with pain good and gone,
so come something as a shield
to a trembling hand.