my smoke smells of honey now, does it? my rabid lunacy has flipped from veiny backhand to plump palm? my terrible ways, my wicked lip, my light and my wick, my sights and the sights, with love as an accident that befalls me again and again; peer across this waining day, a night in the arms of a secret I can't keep, or a cold morning whose rush rummages through my rib cage, strumming these slats like a careless finger thrums along a marimba- and all this just as my heart has stopped dragging its feet- you can leave and leave and leave again, but I'll be here, with a crown of rotting fruit, watching the court, reclined to my seat