not until he believes in me; meanwhile

the ground changes every night.

I must find some

thing closer, that

won’t cast my darkness

so strong and angled with its light; some

thing that

doesn’t use all of me

to return just one broken-eyed piece; some

thing newer

than my age-old mortal

fantasies.  until then,

the unlikelihood of this perfection

leaves me to cry

for all that is possible,

it pounds my chest open, it makes

me only

as perfect and as likely true

as every thing that will never happen.




I don’t fight pain with the bottle, I 

fight the bottle with pain.

I fight the people with loneliness,

and indecision with doubt,

I fight failure with self-consciousness.

I fight the clouds with my patience.

and I fight, and I fight, and someday I will lose

the fight by fighting.

because I can’t fight the fight.