All of the 4172

I want to make him
eat
all his words in bite-sizes too big
to swallow,
so that he
chokes
on his intentions,
leaving his deceitful gifts undelivered,
dribbling excuses over his
chin,
running down his chock-filled
throat.

I want dusk to settle in his
cheeks,
while his
eyes
plead for my Heimlich
and his slippery fingers clutch in vain,
imploring mercy,
receiving merely
a pat
on the back
for making me think he was more
than random.

You dip your hand in oil.
I place my stained-glass heart in your palm.

I would rather you break me,
then never
have you hold me at all.

You got down on your knees
to gather up
all of the pieces with
your beautiful incompetent hands.

For one slow breath,
I was lucid.

Maybe breaking
what keeps us together
is how we survive.

Tiny little pieces give the clouds
room to roll back.

Tiny little pieces give us edges
to cut back curious fingers.

Tiny little pieces give us
no volume
by which to carry anything
ever again.

Can a sardine and an elephant
sit on a couch,
spread a little gill,
stroke a little tusk,
drink brews and make moves?

Am I really intolerant or are you
a fabulous liar?

Every beautiful thing is dismantled,
left to the scrutiny of
an incredulous mind.

We are dangerous skeptics of
anything good in this world.

In an imperfect world,
can a sardine really ignore
the elephant in the room?