I Guess It’s Too Late to Live on the Farm

I guess it’s very brave of me to pass by
under you like this. I’m pretty sure
no one will see these stony parts of me
before you edge them out. Before I was placed
next to you and then I wasn’t.
Timeless is long and thick with cycles.
That is something I have been told.
Something else is that everyone is now having sex
and creating some new language to outburst,
that these clear pushes are good but stilled.
As in with you.
As in, the largest rocket known to man
went and killed all the seagulls surrounding it.
And so to you I want to say Watch the seagulls.
Instead I sit dumb and filled
with too many meals, wishing you might
call this sacerdotal.
I am not expected to grow.
I am not how quickly I throw up after breakfast.
I am not your husband. I am not even trying
to hint at the work. There are too many grim ways
to say bowel so instead I cry for the past.
Everything competes to be exhausted.
Exhaust competes with everything.



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