Treating Myself Wrong

when falling into you
i came upon the nexus
of my grief and 
gasped!

i became a chestnut
in a hoard of
steamed bricks-
treating myself wrong
when forging angels
and carefully 
culling my wingspan
to agree with the  sky
of my impossible
so i might eat 
my words
with turbulence
and black honey
if my bees
parabola.

when falling into you
i procured your gravity
and your porcelain caul
draped over acreage 
of dementia
with small 
calm.

I glimpsed the pith 
of a stone fruit
stuck to a
sugar cube….

windchimes and blind-fists
waving at phantoms 
with gypsy grit
for iron
suns.

stomping the marsh
of our grievance 
with a night march
to the foothills of our
low spires…

Alive too much 
to be a thing
Not Alive.