Oh, I’m Sybil
I squat low in my wranglers
swig back sun tea
You’re growing
older one hole at a time trying
not to think as often as you want to
about making a hole large enough
to drop the whole world into.
sailed across the pantheon of hours, an early spring of languor beyond time, beyond history, to bring the open fire resolution, striking lightning in the killing fields, haunting chorus rising under the sunk cost,
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“You don’t help,” I say between tortures,
and he (because art
is evenhanded, masochistic)
gasps, “Neither do you.”
Best laid plans of Sylvia Plath lovers go awry.
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let’s get this over with: i hate form. rules
confound me. i break before i bend
most of the time.
blank.
field.
& bigger & louder — & more dangerous
& the machinery of — love roars