It’s Not Your Fault
The brass lamp in your window,
warm honey heat humming
in the frozen prairie February dawn
when everything’s a stone of cold,
may have yoo-hooed at the hobo
teetering on his tattooed lip of
murder, but it didn’t open the
door. It’s a lamp. It’s handless.
Sudden nosebleeds know no
source upriver in your heart, your
intent, your languagelessness,
poor thing. What ding-dong
draws hearts on a platelet bag?
That bitter bitty in a backbend lies
to her lies ad infinitum. Loveless.
Swats bats with a squash racquet.
Would you believe, with a blush
like that, she’s 100 years old?
You never ate cancer berries
sleepwalking in the pantry
or sunk your hand into a sack
of endometriosis flour. Never.
Gene champion, that goon
over there gargles 409 and tacks,
and he sleeps like the biggest
baby ever—big as a runaway