One tragedy is to try.
The frost on the window stays while it thins,
but you do so on foot.

Soon, your abdomen wilts into just an approximation of a frame.
We are unlikely architects, creating something
from an ever increasing nothing.

I begin to hear you only in outline,
the recipe but not the substance.
Even the mosquitoes can taste the wilt.

Release, for me, the other tragedies
of intimate arrivals. Be a jailbird
for your capability,
strong, central, and in accord.

Allow my arms and my words
to be counted as hinges to hand onto
in the plithe of your seedy background.
I invite you to tower over your own argument now,
gather the new postures from falling

April [3/15]