Weary wounds
 down the sides of the front of my torso
 raw from my continually
 cutting you out of my lungs:
I had made a bold play of it once;
 now I stare —
 take slow gapes of resignation.
The fishhooks I withdrew —
 cut each one in half with my knife —
 they keep coming;
 there are so many now.
I look up to the sky
 filtered through the surface of the water;
 who knows, maybe, of a sudden:
  Yank.

All I’ve left is me little torch.
The grand visions on cave walls
 descend into darkness.
Come. There is enough for two.
Let us make a meal of it.

My love for you is like a summer day:
 a deep blue diamond canvasing
 the dome of the universe.
My love for you is like a blue sky
 with an occasional cloud hanging by;
and, then it is the march of a wall of doom, gray:
 thunderheads gritting teeth;
 every drop seeking to dig under dirt;
 thunderbolts seeking vengeance,
 declaring it must needs be union:
  absolute drench even upon its undoing;
and, my love is like a summer day.

By your armor, I’m taken, wondering:
your eyes gleaming, unmasked,
your body dancing, unencumbered
 and light.

{ your sword nicked my knee;
   the spilling of blood
   grants me brethren see
   — and thou still war?
   Oh, go wounded and stay wounded
   wherefore I, bad in war and in peace,
   may nurse you. }

You loosen my strings.
You unravel each one.
You remove them from the frets.
I suppose I'm done playing, now.
Then, you return.
You bring back to me my music:
fit as a fiddle —
and strum.

My heart sits atop
anvil, in furnace,
eager for the hammer
to bend down and squash it
repeatedly,
for its tendrils to grab hold
and embrace hammer and anvil
into one amorphous pounding.

I know I may only drive one at a time.
Oh, dear,
you’ve started all 10 of my automobiles.