To maintain these depths of misery
takes work given my buoyant disposition;
for every sill of my flesh
I must invent a new method to flay.
Few people know inside your skin
is a microscopic garden.
With love I tuck in seeds
of destruction late
each night, daily tend my
dear ruin — knot distant, unsuspecting
clovers at their root tips; stomata full of
rodent bones, down
they go, the pond lilies: I’m strict. Who
could love you like you.