Poetry

I wouldn’t call it a masterpiece but its title was “I’m autistic and I love you” so I really couldn’t have asked for anything better I don’t think.

You think of fin de siècle decadence: perversity, 
death, decline, and decay—the rise of the monstrous

It doesn’t feel that hard but that could be a sign 
That these are so bad; I have no sense. Thinking about keeping these up all summer feels like 
Planning a wedding:

To win a free mattress, lovers must sleep 
hidden and apart behind a wall to discern 
each other by the cadence of their breath. 

this heart, its caverns of somewhere laughter, its waking craters, 
its forest of knives. Dilate its thin pulsing complicities

He loves those first hours after she comes back.

I remain this tender, yearning 
to mend the flattened red wingage of every lantern 
fly that lingers on the stranger’s heels.

a lot of talk about peace is talk about talks
and talks about the size 
or shape of tables

He’s never been on this railway line before.