One Tragedy

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]