Fotographie

  I say, Lover, you should be my boyfriend and you say Tell me all the reasons why and I think you want to see yourself put through the hand-crank that is my slow process of elimination I say, Well. Well you are a hot streak, not on a and your hair-story was on trend the day you come home from Mexico wearing that white shirt and blue jeans.   The day I was remanded to your higher court — I remember I was in Brooklyn firewalking with an insurance adjuster who asked me To be his wife, but all I could think of was that time you showed me your long underwear. Do not address me with your crazy heart That heart which has cloven mine Clicking it apart slow, like joints Separated on the rack.   I say, Well, you’re like Texas or an Amish Apocalypse. See? Hot streaks, sparklers and the breakfront hotel sparkles. Or apricots.   Once, I’d wanted to smash you like breakfront glass and inside, all your old china — I wanted to break in.   I did not know what it meant to preserve —

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