Against A Dark Field
Hate makes my head light.
Hate rides its particulars, styled
after fireflies, after envy. Our bed rises
on its liquid. I hate the heavy
body known, by rights,
as mine. The window’s colony of wild
ideas, appointed, hovers. Wise
is lightweight. Undercover
I withdraw from us and turn
into pure fuel. You blacken with sleep. I green with burn.