WHEN I STEAL
When I steal, I steal big.
I steal the spring
And the birth of flowers.
I capture the giving,
A child’s crush—
Innocent and generous.
I secure the frames of nature
That travel through my flesh—
A hive for bees of steel.
Stealing is a sacrifice
For the nations apart, the pith
Uncrossed, lines untangled. Tangle,
Then untangle this sacred oracle.
Know your worth, the smell of your fear,
The gleam of my kiss on your neck.
I steal big and bravely
For your days
That do not know
Of the atonement
Of my many Mays,
The wait, the ebb
In the anatomy of buildings,
The delicate crossroads
On the fields of war. I bless
Most the loss of beauty—
My incipient babes
I hold dear in my bosom.
My times of yore are of physiques
Immature because of their anima.
The poles of ambience are even.

POWER OF WRITING
My sweet love is amazed
By the power of poetry.
Socialist he is and young—
At heart,
Yet he does not know the dark—
The dark I loved
With a cute blonde
Who was playing a delicious game,
Buried knee high in sand
By the sea, lost
In his serious business,
With shovel in hand.
Till I met him, so bored was I—
In high lectures,
Literate communities,
And the wrong way they held the books.
All were dead to me
And helpless
As was I.
Some were shuffling,
Some sprinting
On the paths lighted for them,
Rather than digging away their own.
He saw me and called,
Hey girl, dig with me, with this,
And threw a blue pen at me.
I grabbed the stranger tool
And started my toil
With sweat on brow.
Before evening fell, I fell asleep.
When I woke, I found myself
Having traveled
To the dark side of the moon,
Never to return.
Dark matter burned my eyes,
But I can still see
My darling’s point—
Seeing this noble and saintly.
To the shadows
I invite him and all else.
There is an alien peace here.
Some power too—
The power to destroy my life,
To give way
To the discrepancies of youth
And naiveté.
The writer’s glory is not a real one.
What wins is commodity, sometimes agency
Where power honors its own power only
And the secret
Its own secrecy.

MILADY
Milady wears her smug face
With her prudish pride
And her crown’s invisibly visible glee
She takes to each gathering.
Milady sharpens her blazing blazers
With brooches—
A pick
Of the most unique armies
On her arch lands
And offers us
Her bitter elegance—
A manifesto
Of her patronizing fashion sense.
No one actually listens to her
Or desires to
Understand the redundant glow
And her assumed patrol
Upon our stolen innocence.
A late evening approaches her
And those she loves.
She must see—
And never will sadly—
The will of her disguises
Serves as a pensive suspense
Over the arms of intelligence
She fakes
Till the real sun will appear
And burn
Her ancient soil
And paint it
A young crimson color
She would die to retrieve.
Her life-dreamt crimson
Shrank, long ago,
Into a soft pink—
The shade of her glasses
And windows
With which she locked herself in
A name
Established for the legacy
Of cruelties crowned
And backs
Turned on peasant us.