I woke up


At 6:22 a.m – ran to the mirror
Felt disfigured – dreamt with father
It was France – almost 1922 – winter
Perhaps February – he was yelling at me

Over a tin of lobster smashed into ground
And here you go again with death – he said
Are you a protestant, are you – he said
No father – I am a tiny mother

Religion underneath your big stone

If or maybe

I forget to speak

Know it was me

It was easier to give up

It was easier to fuck you

Underneath quite justly

Making myself burn

Intoxicated, fevered

Not by this mind

Who reaches for a glow

Shush, God is taking notes

Be swift, alert,  commas in right place

Stay alert,  your earnest woman

Your writing, whole of love

A paradox of profanity

You are a man, blowing

Moving deadward

Requiring a little less