untitled, at home

it’s a blunt thing ideas
the gaps hidden in the wall god will find them out
and ideas mean bleeding
to some extent

it’s because the world
isn’t made of ideas—even though they can do marvellous things
but the world is made of people and demons and
the angel armies mostly though it’s

the world’s made of stories and that’s dangerous too
terrifying even it can’t be known—ideas are like trees they grow
but seedlings they are mostly all the same you can
buy or sell an idea but

stories can only be told and
lord god it’s hard to do that and lord god
at best it’s like trying to move a sandcastle

then again it’s not stories that keep a person honest
or cut the tall poppies or
keep us a little vulnerable:

a couple knives some milk and a hot oven you can
do anything with stories ideas at least they
look the same more or less after a week

we’re all part of the problem and she held me close
to her breast and the tableau was one of a savior and
i felt and found her with my tongue we knew
we were doing something wrong
wrong to ourselves too

we weren’t storybook gods after all but what is the memory
and what is the idea there—doing the wrong thing
and right at the same time and sometimes the wrong thing
can be made right so why not misbehave:

there was nothing imperfect of her body then
nor mind tasted like summer itself her skin
was a miracle and nothing less

ideas though:
they always find you in the end
having some grievance

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