Poems, etc.

the thrill of a thousand doves  all flying up at once. your hands around my throat. is this sin or singularity: the red of blood on a white, white wing. your rage,  licked away, clean as a dinner  plate so when i look down i see half bruise, half reflection. i miss you. i dread you. sometimes i am you,  it seems, only i’ve never been  able to land.