Lake Tomahawk

I can’t do a lot more/to keep from bruising./In the lining of the sky,/is what is dared when fasting./ Though it’s not wholesome,/it’s what you want to bring on./Anger is a lifelike possession/like jalopies in ditches/door handles pearly./I freely admit/I am a glutton/by night, diaphanous;/I starve to hear you croon.When I think about you dying/my lips are sealed/but their sound carries/all the way to the Grand Concourse./Unsure murmurs glancing /off neck and shoulders./I was likewise smitten/I watched you crying.