I’m not so angry after all
this time, he smells like honey, hot roasting in the damp evening.
His carpet moves like the sea. I might be breathing, but he’s not.
His blood is worn out in deep veins, his secret time is up.
I am not angry this time, he positions himself for love and I watch,
jammed with battle fever, I am hot for war.
A soldier holds no fear, and there is no time to speak.
He engraves himself with yesterday and I wear him next to my heart.
I am not angry after all
this time. His blood dries up and my ache fades.
We are both permanent in a temporary place.
