I

Your poetry had been dissolved
In a solution till it felt like home,
Percussion running over time,
A game of flight that ended bad.

But nothing ended, and the point
Was carried over water, and
The atoms of the water...

You can either hunt
And put it in a box
Or you can put it in a box
And hunt: whatever works
For you.

II

Hope babbles up a poppy:
The key of love that turns
And turns inside the lock.

It's
A cinch, and so
Much less.

The blessed, meanwhile, spins
And wounds: nice cells, break
Up.

Spurs imply: not water, only a
Relation—still, now,
It's over.