Tuesday, June 28, 2016

a plea of let me.

you don't
make love
to an elephant
unless

you plan
to enslave
the
elephant

i've a paintbrush
held in
my trunk

my tusks removed
from me, polished

around the neck
of another?

she cannot produce
a scream

of her own?

i've been stripped
of my nature
so it feels,

yet i've never
learned
how to

grieve,
have i.

such is your yielding,
oh, mine; kindness

be realistic.

your fists the size
of my tongue. let us dare

to be the first
to outrun danger

as a predecessor
to consequence.

let me mount you,
little one
in our despair

as little ants
crawl in armies
on our
bodies
in our unrest

buried as
to be concealed

to not be caught
up to.

call it yours, give it
your namesake

so that
it may not
ever
end

laying still
we will
never learn

how
to die

lay still,
there is
warmth there

no action
leads
not to action

only
to the proof
of

itself
being
an appendage

for someone
at

some point

it will not take
convincing
that reality never
hit us

there is
still wild
though it's said
there is not.

we sat very
very still, doing
good things;

there is
still wild
though it's said
there is not.

it's kept between;
wild
is the secret
you've taken
of me,

and a secret is the wild
is nature
screaming,
myself somehow.