i can almost hear your words

i.
i soliloquized, wrote my name on your desk,
i am the cruel beautiful wanton mischeivous.
my head is cool and gold in the light falling in
from behind the green velvet study curtains.

"don't you care? i wrote my name on your desk,
indelible ink on the antique oak; it will never go.
don't you care?" 7 a.m., the street's empty and light.

ii.
little pistol seeds rain down; tree shedding sounds against our window
you are mostly made of wrought iron, i am mostly made of yellowing lace.
sunday, april 17 in the dining room we stood on opposite sides of the table,
darting ideas through each other's displaced skulls; dull swallows flit past us.
and i [love you] no longer wish to know you; their shadows taste like vitriol;
vitriol tastes like love- warm mouths, arsenic, whispers against rough brick.

iii.
i have heard promises, miscellanies,
infrequencies, radio edits. i have heard
taciturn larceny spiralling out from that
boneyellow ridge-of-skin chest of yours.
outlawry, my danger my love, i put four
tiny seeds in the dust under your desk,
carve my name in the beautiful wood,
leave you one last note on the windowsill:
"living off the land comes unnaturally, to us."