triage

Fate fell,
Cracked her head
On the marble
Of my misadventures;
I’ve nursed her since.
I wince to tell of all the
Unstrung overtures,
The preambles,
Precursors
To happiness I’ve
Watched become
Her banana peel.
Too real the regret;
Bereft of breath,
I lay beneath the true heft
Of wonder I’ve left behind,
Simply because that’s where
It had to be—
Crushingly far from me.
I didn’t usually choose it,
And that hurt grinds
A cavernous cavity
In the heart.
It’s no art to love;
It’s mostly artless:
Stick-horse-free and reckless-green,
Imagination ripping at the seams,
Or all that greasily gleams on a
Foreign, storm-slick, first-kiss street.
It teems with an uncertainty
That’s somehow safe;
But not.
Soul-stilting;
But trip-foot-fraught.
Fresh-feathered and flightful;
But what-Icarus-forgot.
As an idiot dances,
I’ve dared my chances;
That stitch and knot on tomorrow’s brow
Shows just how butterfly-but-bee
Romance is—or has been to me.
Should’ve warned her away somehow;
Yet, what would Lady Fate
Do with a flashing flag
She knew I’d fly,
But fall hard anyway
For me,
That I might come pray,
Bedside-dashing,
By my wounded why on bared-bone-knee.