Husbands are burning their wives;
The river, resigned, takes everyone in.

                           That signpost that was love
Is lost now. We thought we knew so much,

Blizzards wait
Hold back abandon

Your fabled self, lying there error prone.

And blow, blow dust off an enfeebled spine,
Filling lungs with belletristic grime.

Grief stricken, Charles would have nothing more to do
with poetry, he was burning everything. I warned him

I don’t think guys want to see lesbians,
to have real-life, full-fledged dykes strike a pose,

I am unmade here, out of habit and thinking is no door.

I’d lick your boots, your breastplate clean, shine your clocks
to come candid: my door is slightly ajar: come inside my
      outside, seen by common sense like a collection

Theirs is a heroic lot, cast away
and glistening so silently among the rubbish.
There are so many secret places