grounded—
bare feet pressed to tired earth,
simple land i’d stumbled upon searching.
yellow, the butterfly’s wings,
woven from linen.

it’s all an itchy tag playing at my neck.
i don’t much care for peace, do i?

think i’d rather beer.
poured sweet through my lips;
my corse hands upon your narrow hips—
kissing you madly at some bar—
probably snarl at the man across the way,
not from instinct,
as antichrist,
that unsane twisted freedom
we subscribed to

where we’d swallow no lithium.

-

tomorrow morning,
then
let me yearn for peace

when a headache
splits me clean down the circuits,
as if the bumblebee buzzing
around my ankle electrified—

—

when did you grow so tired of me, love?