AGAIN AGAIN

all the returning returns
as i disassemble our actual hour
to only have it pre-consume the moment
of a habit, dangling in the trope
of a misspent smile
where the horror
is perfect.

again and again, we tremble in the thicket 
of our pale legions of impossible joys
only to blunderbuss
in the fumes
of our torrential 
cascade
into a madness
only Love can call
a madness
to its face.

to its-
face.