I love fights: July, shut-eye, my mind.
Today it’s him and how very odd
that it’s all OK—no fire, no flood
no impossible wrestle in endless supply.
I dream up a Goliath on the Mildmay Line
to twist and hit and twist till I wring blood.
The worst part being how it feels good
to infinitely sink into the sublime lie.

On my third invite to the convention
of restful winters, I declared I would
no longer politely decline; I’ll show him
I can love without baseless apprehension.
I can enjoy Tuesday pasta nights and I could
fight better fights: schisms, -isms, poems.