Blind beggar boys burying the abalone brooches
that I bought for her once upon a time,
and now she casts aside
like so many crumbs to so many roaches.
She doesn't care.
She tells them where to bury them.
She draws misleading maps,
she drops them on my lap,
saying, "Dig 'em up
if love is what you meant."
I have to think about it --
whether these decorations
were declarations of intent
or imitations that ferment
and stain her neck and chest with brine,
and was it what I had in mind
when I gifted them?
She doesn't care.
She tells them where to bury them.
She draws misleading maps.
She drops them in my lap,
saying, "Dig 'em up
if love is what you meant."
But, honestly, to doubt me's not so crazy.
I'm intellectually lazy;
I've only ready synopses of
the books I say I love.
But, if I'm gonna act like I want my heart to grow,
even the greenest gardener knows
it's better to start below
than assume that you're above.
But, if it's not enough for me to think,
"Yeah, maybe I could love her,"
sometimes when I go to sleep,
then she's just gonna keep waking up
next to a guy that she won't even want
to try to want to keep.
But she doesn't care.
She's thinking about where
to bury me,
and how, even with a map,
no matter how accurate,
nobody is going to go searching.
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