or are they tender and yielding?
victims to bruise and scratch
to scald and laceration
to sheared corners
of tenderness
each time a loved one departs
I see it is me who is
the self-inflicting menace
to my heart
snorers are braggarts they say to the sleepless I can even hum a tune while I do it
the squeal of rubber rips the silence as a fast driver carves up the invisible night with an extended tortured note and skid marks when it stops I close my eyes wait for crickets to serenade the darkn
walking out my front door I’m assaulted by the awful stink of thousands of mango blossoms but oh what a miracle when they morph into handfuls then armfuls of ambrosia as if a hangover could turn into