Alacrity could mean wild if it weren’t for its definition
and
love could mean beauty if not for its fangs
its appetite and flocculent poison
I watch the philanderers lock hands and walk by
and see no bite marks, no scars, no bleed from love’s prong

Uncut they are defined
but
If only we were more willing to bleed.
If only this fixity, this cold need to forge ourselves with ourselves,
if only the finite could be broad and our interests filtered through a screen of unexpected tones,

If only cemeteries were more than flippant stones.

When I see the world foster itself
I pray
for famine and disarray.

When I see each moment foist itself on its definition
I feel
no end.

When I see the laser phantom of right now
I surrender,

and wonder how I will be defined
when I take my place in the rows
of corpses and sprout
flowers from my head.