I believe with all of the antipathy you shed on me
that I will outlive an opposing infantry
without the thought of branch officious notes
miscast into long lines of twelve
insistent on selfocracy.

It is my swear word of the month
to torch definity
unless you let go kite string
after nominative bunching.
Then and only now will I arrest
the permanent record of antiquity
to have propeled the existential
into stealth care.

Promise me you'll never shelve
these warm and gestured sonnet leaves.
They strip their veins of dust
when I'm afraid to watch them
bear up under shadow lint.

Confrontive silhouettes reveal forfeited light.
The word "if" might have been a mantra
if the styles did more than
show themselves to night.
The wear and tear of opulence
removes our sleep,
as one does not resist comparing grace notes
to their singular divided light.