I don't know you,
so this means nothing, 
but I'll be damned if I don't
recognize a pattern, 
familiar, a Mandelbrot.

As I write this, I'm listening
to music improvised, stumbling,
in a church.

As I write this, I'm thinking
how angry I got 
watching him cut up 
bone-in chicken last night 
with cooking scissors
for thirty-five minutes.

Relationships are hard.

For six months you shrieked
through staged portraits.
Here, your face a raging tangerine,
there, your hair 
a spectacular Klimtian rat's nest.
Anyone knew
who really paid attention.

He dissected the chicken 'cos he was anxious, 
cowed by the raw and natural:
quivering fat, chewy bits.

Not like us, rising from swamp steam,
sucking on musky bones,
my soul bellowing at your twin soul
from windy hill to windy hill
or gable to fierce Victorian gable,

-for A. and A.

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