what if i fill out the form with truer answers,
write down how i’m best at looking with blind
eyes at photogenic secondhand moments?
and mailing love poems to the graveyard of
love, addressed to all dead inamoratos.
                                        (when the water rises, you
                                        better be fast, caution has
                                        always caused you accidents)
my tongue’s not for licking
love, its burnt buds don’t
heal fear, they can’t fill you
up or satisfy your hunger. 
you can run away; 1, 2, 3,
but it lives where i live.