kī anthony

and what am i meant to say to you when
you took my little clay heart, me and all my 
loves, and shaped it? glazed it, too, that
crackle-shard stuff that happens when your
outsides cool faster than your insides. they 
tear apart, then. contents too hot to hold,
lawsuit-worthy, overfull. spilling over like
anger and so many poems and ink, blotted
too late not to leave a stain in your terrible
carpet. i was angry, but didn’t know it yet. 
you were beautiful in your anger and your
ennui and the crooked-tooth way you had
about work and men and being queer in the
way that queer means artist, ever making, 
perpetual motion machine, until the cables 
give out on him and her and you and me.