…that this should be poetry?

by H.B.

Coup de Grâce (to deserve a lover)

You cannot cling to

consolations they

decay

like a safe deposit box whose code turns out

to be the burglar’s birthday (any

burglar’s birthday).

Now only the banality of disabuse is sudden —

A hair-trigger dial and

an indifferent explosive will

chip(s) off the old block

(someone’s got your number

not knowing any different sees you falling to the floor

with ears of sound and fury

going into shock —)

But sudden proves banal only in syncopated moments:

electric fingers stretch a quick defibrillated death; a caring urgency

draws near a mouth under your nose

to plead devotion out your breath (I <3-attack you) —

the eyes turn out, I suppose

neither nor

(a kiss on the cheek;

to see other people…)

but to turn this wormy moment under cover – once more unto the tomb

my friends

one more good turn

so’s to deserve another.