my poems are thieves:
they are not murderers, taking beating the life from you
through spondaic tramples and stampedes of blows
from a blood-thick rash undertaking of stamps and stomps
until you are left wincing as your eyes glance my page.
they are not adulterers, groping you firm until your skin
breaks and taking you into backrooms and closets
to make you the other something or other in your love-trick-
dead-lust from something you still love but once did too.
they are not false idols to be adored when god or man fail you
or when you need a shine to look at with wide adoring eyes—
they do less than shine and instead they should scorned
closely to fight their any urge to be above humanity.
instead my poems are thieves: i send them in to pick your pockets
of praises and batting lashes, of embraces and kisses and to bring them
to this poet, so that your heart becomes a token around my neck
piece by ever-beating piece.
go forth, my little band of thieves.
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