Versions

She keeps your counsel,

It’s true,

I counsel myself, tears

Don’t get wiped, they seep and stain,

You have the bitter bitch to fold herself

Into your cheeks and take the luxury

Of her lovesick, disposable body,

You can bury her beneath the rubble

Of your troubles and she’ll rise again,

The Christ of Love,

The Phoenix of Polygamy,

Bringing bandage and body

Far from crusted clusters of crushed clovers

In the airy fields of Loner, I roam

The fields well, my skeletons smile,

My scarecrow’s hinges whinge and whine

The air of good company,

Life is mine, however quiet at times,

And though I have echoes and whistles

And thistle and thorn at the mercy,

And none of them flesh,

I’ll not be called mad,

I’ll not be called normal,

We’re not unlikely when we cry,

You and I,

You and Me,

Yours is a version of sanity

And mine is aversion of sanity.