Anyway, Where’s The Meat

in this thin salad? Do I have to do everything myself?
Take this one word: elegy; write it in letters that

mount to the sky. Come with me where our hands
find purchase in each other; where I can claw from

these simple ways some big song, some aria to
go with the storm of our days. Remember when

you called my name out of hell’s dry foundry,
and met me with your lips. All I could say

was caught on the sticks we brought under cover,
and crushed so with our young and pliant flesh.