I Can Not Thank You

I want a rook,
not something sweet;
something that’s dark, winged, and snags inside me.

Give me
last words, a bad dream,
tar fields that glitter;
let me be buoyed by a river of thick, merlot slavering.

Take what is delicate
and so pick it apart.
Pluck this flower petal by fragile petal
and let loose rabbit scream;
make Goya’s Black Paintings; crooked art.

Pressure this body,
into a diamond, let the mud
that’s dripping from the forehead
lay a burial chamber; frighten me,
seal me up tight.

I have had enough
of garish
light.

Leave my form a century or more to rot.

When the last bulb
has been uprooted,
when the last fire
doused,
when the final star, blinked out,

come and find me.
Dig into the deep.
Lay breath to me.

I will be
next to the rib bone
that arches over
the memory,
where the beat once laid.

I’ll rise up,
and walk the silence;
a ghost, pale and alone. A pleasure, to be sure.
A promenade to never be spoken about.

I can not thank you enough.

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