This lamp lets off a cherry light to my blank page.
If these words were magnetic or static-electric,
they might stick to a piece–
or a piece of brain, like the words pot calling
the kettle black stuck in my mind,
a tape looping back. It’s not that I lacked
love or hate. Flat: the terms just
slip away from the page. Would I now be all
asquirm if I could firmly hold them there?
Or hold you again…
Imagine everything set right. Swallow
the poison I spilled. Use my mouth for love?
Take it all with a grain of salt or dignity.
Bite my tongue, there’s no going back.