I’ve lost count of the number of
numbers I block off my cellphone
at night. those who sleep
the sleep of the dead
should not befriend
think of all those whose middle names
really are Trouble and how you are
sullying their credit with
the twenty-four hour shopkeepers,
the streetwalkers, the night-time
you cradle the flame guttering
twin beacons in your eyeglasses
the way you cannot cradle yourself.
you sanction your own cherry-lit death.
your immediate response to a kiss
is, do it again. I wonder what kind
of malnourished you are and decide
flesh is probably nothing you need.
perhaps I only seek you out
because I am drawn to train wrecks:
I met a phorical toddler whose head
was too large for his body.
whose ego unsteadies his soul.
now I understand your fear
of falling into people:
lose your balance.