santos scribes

i want it to be good
i believe, that if it is
some of the goodness on the page there
will leap up from it and impale itself in me

i will stop feeling the sleight of my delinquency then

my possession of bones and skin, a heart, both hands
will relinquish themselves
from the love
that made them give it all away

r e l i n q u i s h
me from the damage of a singular action
even as i know there are no singular actions

it is true then, that the truth has both an inside and an outside
like a setting autumn sun casting strange shadows in an otherwise familiar room

they told me her leaving was a good thing, that she loved me,
enough to
why is it then that i live in this fallacious folly
while she gets to be dead and dance free?

is it poetry yet?
it’s just i was wondering-
is there anything you would like to say?

‘what the hell is she talking about?’
just tell me it’s good
.
.
i won’t remember anyway