Suzanne Marie Hopcroft
Possibly I am not that way.
I have been chipping apart my skin; I
have been peeling back the cover of
this rabid book, palming it
with my brain. My viscera are
unmoved. The cormorants can swim
and refuse to surface when
the dark jetsam of your zeal floats
greedily above, threatening
dirges at the sky.
But I forget myself.
Excuse my language, which is
twisted, rent and tall: which struggles
and fails to paint a sun inside
the well of your cheek. Of course
tomorrow we will spin down
the pale hardwoods into an
oblivion that is boundless and
overfull. Stew in our resurrection.
Pat down the hour until
we know it is ours.