Over the last few years
your days have been filled with tumultuousness;
random accidents, you claim.
To me, seemingly unforgiveable,
made fouler by the dark mead of disillusion.

What was I supposed to think—?
the man, the smell,
the bottle, the flowers from Michigan:
none have meaning beyond their chance grouping.

Loving you has been like capturing a switchblade,

unexpectedly, with arteries and veins.