i love him and her in the morning
(but i do not love
the later nights)
the hollow stones i press my backbone to
and scrub those tired tries and aims and misses.
too many calculated kisses and backhands serving
the roasted chicken during christmas
the runaway caroling
(a new meaning to ding dong ditch)
fill the holes with barbed wire and kindness
prune away the August grass
and to hell with all that cumulated, (down)trodden past
of such a tense existence:
at the rim of skepticism and salvation.
i love them in the early morning
i do not love myself in the dead of night.