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an Immunity I had not
to the Sting they told me of
though heavy solitary currency,
it’s weighted and sinks inevitably
into rivers of erstwhile love.
An opportunist strained my ear alone
And turned their back too all, including I
Calling out to them, I heard dial tone
The day that followed when she tried to die.
an Antidote I had not
to Searing of new fury.
Through engulfing irritability,
Dispositions amoral, usually
I’d forgotten the self completely.
Companions trod of paths paved with eggshells
Their yolk tender from trauma whisked away
On platters dished with baby’s breath and knells
Their repetitious thanks when I stayed.
a Sweetness I had not
to the bitterest of palates.
Threw body and mind down the front staircase
to a fate only Tanqueray could chase
up in the cold to huts of Vallot.
I’ll never know if I really made the choice,
Had clicked my switch-hook to snuff out the noise
That went out your mouth but through my own voice
The voicemail is full—calls declined with poise.