Admit it, you love
death. The way
you love a roving rogue relation.
You may be glad it sleeps
under someone else's roof tonight
but you miss your occasional
You never felt so alive.
It has its allure for me too
You can imagine some of the places
I have to go digging for poems.
The scent of it clings to my skin
brings you circling closer and closer
even without your understanding
what it is that compels you
but I know. Death is the whetstone
that keeps the heart honed.
When you're feeling blunt around the edges
you come round just to smell me.