we are past the hour of suspicion
candles lit to our rendition
of post-modern intentions
the gyre and gymbal
filet and lobster tail
and vicodin valentines
I wear my hardon my sleeve
but it’s frail relief
balanced on an everest of fears
the imagined terror of losing you
my single piton on the rocky face
I suck oxygen and climb, and climb
it’s no crime to love you even
after Valentine’s
from the first I saw the signs
things that don’t change with the weather
