Don't you go telling

These little blue books    
tucked beneath the skin
told the tale of the hurts    
(like nobody knew)
that patterned us
What I did to you you took politely
the gifts with the surprise poured out            
 
We were forever clouding the air 
with tiny gracious smiles
pretending to forgive each other
working at our fine stitching


Should we ever shake free 
of the disease’s history             
we would come back 
to a plain hunger
and the irregular senses
let lovely bruises be 
the tokens of uneven pressures
and mattered delight


Our arthritic tongues complain
because we cannot be bored
The sun is cruel to everyone
curing us as accidental meat
so that regular people
can have a butchers


We'll throw the rope to the raggedy shore
stripping to our shivering coordinates
before the energy of almost there 
a bleeding and corrosive light


Let all the blue books everywhere 

burn up to the silver fine ash
that waits for the green tips 
of our paysan fingers
to dip in


Now love, let’s you and I be friends
and shake our dirty hands