The places you and I choose to fight:

landlocked, hemmed in by concrete and corn.

I have never been so cozened.

You are sugar on my tongue: foliage in my hands, 

an ease in movement, pride and pleasure.

I would rather be tectonic, pyrrhic, 

an embodiment of the violence in my heart.

Silence and sugar mark me here, bruise me, but

heavy tongues demand crying time.

I can hear the doves from my bed. They whisper

pretty secrets, small complaints, bustled up

into your nest with self-important breasts.

I wish for their deaths, for foxes and hawks

to crest the hill in packs and flocks and rip them 

wing from ill-used wing. I pluck mint

and dill and thistle and consider

all the ways I cannot die.