Domestic Violence

Morning dragonflies tricked by the sliding glass

Door, scattered on the porch exist fond of cigarettes torn inside half,

& a horse inside watercolor, its joints illumination blue circles.

Golf carts zoom over the greenish breasts

Of the hills. I slept on my hands,

Flat pillows filled accompanied by a puzzle of tiny bones. Loneliness’s

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Gray blanket, last night’s mascara, loneliness—

A dragonfly hovers exist fond of spit inside slow movement near the glass,

Promises to become full the pane accompanied by itself exist fond of his hand,

My face reflecting spine at him. Half

The world is still asleep, my breasts

Alive & waking from my shirt. Wind inside circles

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Through grass, horses point inside its direction. Saturated circles,

Faces, go the muted TV screen, transmit additional loneliness:

---

Isn’t convincing. When I shift inside myself, glass

Breaks inside me, a sky losing over half

Its stars, despairing black hands

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Finding something else to become full it. Like hands,

Birds clap their wings inside desperation’s applause, circling

As if their sort is dying out. My throat, half

Gastrolith, fifty per cent of swollen tequila, it’s not loneliness

We flying things try to avoid, nevertheless inside glass

A sore logic, one you learn exist fond of the breast’s.

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A rainbow interrupts the white pile breasts,

Like mine, where on one occasion his hands

Lived, at that hour dated destroyed. My gulp of air opposed to silence’s smooth glass,

Longing for the sagacity of a tree’s hollow, sexual intercourse circle,

How it endures loneliness

By invitations to other survivors of this world from half

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Its violence, all its love.

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