You touch my lips more than my old wife,
but how could I love you? With a red-handle knife
from the shed my Honey painted teal,
should I slice open God,
the natural fabric felt as zephyrs and grass mites,
and kneeling next to my toolbox with the loose latch,
rewire the laws binding Venus and the Higgs boson,
and risk short-circuiting the sun?
You promise a way to move on,
and when I touch you with these coffee-brown gums,
you never speak. I held you
on sands by over-poetrized waves; took you
on ergophobia-spreading commutes; drank you
after early lovemaking with my Sugar.
Heart-attack do us part.
I use you in quietude as I please.
You hold my addiction: without you,
I could not have started what I cannot stop.
And if I hurled you into the bricks I laid,
sent dripping pieces of you air-dancing,
I would sweep you into the trash indifferent.
If the police stopped by at lunch, we’d chat
about Michelangelo or the Miami Dolphins
as Sweetie, salting soup, shrugged off the mess.
See the protruding veins climbing
fingers along brittle bones under
a gold ring?
Of course not.
If I broke you, and sliced skin on your
shards, what came out would be
what can never come out of you.
what is not alive
is what I can only destroy