VI

My love poems are paper boats of agony that voyage

to a woman and back ferrying clotted chronicles of failure.

I'm not here for chronicles but to carry your prayer

intact away from the fever and blasphemies of this city.

And I shall bandage my fist so the failure sleeping

in my hand may not drive my hand against me.

I have no boats left only my naked body unmoored.

This isn't love poetry and I will not fail you.