Scene From a Proper Spite

There are back alleys of candor and private rendering of words.
In my opening is a shattering howl. I am overbred, and overbaked
With a gut that is funded in fritters. Do you know the murdering lusts,
The secret deposits of night keepings and black dressings?

We are always banking

I am tired of the way I am always running, of the way I lower my legs
and no spur falls. I am tired of being horizon-bound. I’ve read
the stories and each of your confidences. I’ve made corrections.
What is truffled in turmoil is unspoken.

I raise my shield again.

I step closer to the understanding. There are so many ways to commit;
There are so many ways to be committed. I will commit this to memory.
I defend myself in the unstinting kiss of comfort. This is not seductive.
This is an inflammation, a festering, an epidemic of the heart.