And I wrote about us

unlike queer flowers

    we,thorn-like 

blew side to side-

    ashes

 in telluric tubes,

          arms to pillow,
  hearts to wrestle
        blind,like birds
 under a bucket.
    eyes gave us measure,
some pieces
     of the mirror I sleep
beside, and what is
   left of it, in your way

Crisis of doubt

Imagine
 error
without reasonable doubt,
  and it looks
good ,    abruptly
 they say
mountains-even
the metaphorical kind-
            inevitably,
               make you go backwards,
and turn horses
  into men ,who
 would
rather undergo surgeries
     than crises.