Apology

kinda Bukowski. - i'm really really really sorry.

I began to call on you

in this tone-

you know the one.

It sounds like water-siren groans.

Through no fault or exploit of your

own.

It is just as the nights first born

A baby only the night

owns

the loup-garou

who howls and howls and howls

(I howl at you)

Endlessly

crazed, aroused, and influenced by

the moon.

But you are my

own

and I will be muzzled gladly

and I want to graze your cerulean fingers

your bloodied cuticles

your seafoam rusted copper ring

your wintry kissable palms

your sweet withered knuckles,

for a while, and God-

i want to grasp at you through dirt

to the right of me

where we cushion our backs

neatly parallel

wearing sweaters to help conceal the

repose

In our chilly forever-beds.