If I were married

If I were married three times
I would ruin every man
The third man
would be a lark
tied to a tree
fed sickly sap
Coated in my sugar

When he dies in amber
And writes songs
about our break
I would write:

To love meant to touch him
into an ordinary man
When beyond
He was extraordinary

We never write
for the people we love
This is reason enough

People are made strange
with soundless footsteps
around their love
No longer friend to the world

in white, plaster, scenes
their shadows grow small
Yours in the extreme corner
of the house
where your heel once rested
while we made love
Shadows that stretch and rip
to be free

The man was denied his talents
Used to grip
Like saddle


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