I'm not inclined
to compare the first 183 days to
a flutter of moths at a campfire,
or a summer rainstorm
leaving rust on tin
cans, potted with brown plants.

But I no longer have the faith
to believe in lies.

Those dreams have been erased
by the magnetic impulses
of a stubborn fire,
burned out on fumes.

When you straighten your ions
to form your own succession,
I am lost in organization.
I am deleted, and overwritten
along with everything that used to be.

The answer is a stupid truth:
Love is blind.

08/26/2007

Author's Note: There are too many corners to have to look around before I step. I never anticipate the worst quite enough.

Posted on 08/26/2007
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