You’re sweet. Forget me quickly, that falling and rising over a sea of baked chlorophyll,
swamp-gas filling our wings, our hearts of mud will sooner spark and flare out
their one time as given. I’ve little interest left in my body—leg clatter,
wing-splay, splatter of light when I love you. Broken down September,
light’s loose coins in the marsh grass… we have 12,000 eyes? Did you know that?
I did not know, come to this place, that languor had undone so many.
Cold wind, hot wind, this had everything to do with sex until it became about dying.