When I killed the concept of us, I thought I’d be fine
before I’d find another scratcher, biter, teaser, hungry
for me as if in observation of a sensual Ramadan, pining
for heat like dry wood in the middle of December
yet dripping wet and gusting with the unpredictability
of nature, au naturel, an infant in need of warm,
warm milk, but, alas, I am wormwood, bitter, deadly
like Wormwood, a revelation in my own right, bright,
shooting through the air until I waver, a wafer,
a humble offering of a piece of what I used to be, mean,
average, though unqualified, not enough at-bats, stats
that equate to how often I reach base, safe, guarded
in a vault of my own possession, possessed son
of God, a fraud, making it up as I go along, no longer
desirous of all that I deserve, dessert before dinner,
lights getting dimmer, delivering brilliantly a work
of staggering genius, genes, DNA dead from a touch
to the tongue, tons expelled on women before that fell,
felt a spark, voltage from electric eyes, pupils growing
up and moving on, gone, ganja burnt up in a lung, fun
that fades, a phase, leaves cast off and floating away.