poetry 17.1.26

traces of a love poem I cannot write so I allude to Emily Dickinson, hoping it'll suffice.

Wild Nights, Wild Nights!

to lay myself bare

for you, for you

away from the luxurious and wild nights

or Bukowskian nightmares of a madhouse.

only beyond the white stars and free stripes,

and the western collar of our pandemic days

can I strip myself bare of what agency is left;

what little autonomy you make me wish to have!

whatever souls are there it festers innately;

to allow the good to consume you

as you'd let it bloom the other,

even at the cost of stray estrangements.

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