I cried myself to sleep last night. At my desk, in my office, I have
cried everyday for the past few weeks. Every day requires more
energy to keep each fragile piece of D. Joseph together. When
a fragment comes lose I forget where it originally went. I hastily
glue it wherever most convenient - other pieces have begun to shift:
I only have some many fingers, my wingspan is finite, there are too
many leaks to plug in one night.

This is not a poem. This is not prose. A confession I type as I recall
the glow I feel when we kiss. The glow I force in the hole filled
innumerable times before by bad breath and paranoia, email addresses
and jpegs …

The glue has all been spent on falling fragments.
My arm strength is the last resort to hold the glow
tight and firm in rib cage embrace. White hot,
lowly blue a condemned man unaware of what
he is due. A debtors prison whose walls D. Joseph
cannot see. He asked god for this, D. Joseph thought
god would not care.

This is not a poem. This is not a prayer.
D. Joseph wishes the repossessors
would come calling for what is rightfully
theirs.