beats itself
against the glass

and I have nothing
to offer it. Next

to the others who
like angels

don’t wreck
their wings,

or tear the wall
that is home

or their coffin.
My pretty man

is the night
engulfing

the image.
Moths breed

like bluebells
in his belly.

I come alive
inside you:

the real me
waiting,

wanton,
wanting

to be burned.