Ketchup bottles the bebop
muse. This door
I’m walking through
is physical. But like an actual physical mountain
made up of whatever
composes irony, that’s the spiritual
transformation. You are what a poem
can only aspire to. I’m what a witness
wants to be. The physical world you brought
always scared me. It came with desire
and destruction. It still does. And it still does.
So this is me
surrendering – and I hope you know
I would die for your son – to the truth, which perhaps
love’s mystery. I know we’re different. Skeet boom de bop bop
bae! Marry me anyway.