Upon your marriage to the stuttering half-wit
to RJ for a private conspiracy
I could propose
that we eat rocks and cabbages
that we cut your hair on the bus to Ontario
and make you read Marx
I could laugh
tearing screws from fleshy fiber
throwing hinges overhand into the corn
as my maniacal offering to the raccoons
the little gods of shiny things.
I’d give you my jacket
& betroth you with a dozen hail Marys
in the dark if only you’d admit to,
you’d commit to confusion.
I’d come upon that marriage’s crap game
& sacrifice a dowry of fog if only you’d say
you’d say goodbye to the valley’s little lights
in a bus riding to the cliffs of rain
where some birds only sing
& everything ends
where everything ends
if only you’d say goodbye.
But we both know
I’m only burning effigies.
But we both know we never.
So mea culpa to secrets unfounded
so mea culpa to curly hair & conspiracies
may a mea culpa
keep the books I loaned you..
We both know.
accept these flowers I’ll send.