The little girl in the pool next door
is shouting, “Leave my brother alone.”
Everyone knows it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity,
but we’re choking on all this light.
Love is a subject
glorified by apparitions
by lengthly ghosts passer-bye’s
good-bye hosts. Love was not
Cohen’s victory march, rather
On the slow rise
your words are as
knives or butterflies.
Still sleeping in a
daydream, a walk-about
Trail of replicas to my
When one holds so little,
And values their life as dirt,
You don’t know how much they’d sacrifice,
To spare others from their hurt.
My blood has no value to me,
I’d gladly loose a pint or four,
To spare the ones I love from their pain,
I’d do that and everything more.
Because I hold few near to me,
But I value them more than oxygen,
But I hardly can help as much as I want,
Much to my sacrificial chagrin.