Honey Chopped

By Dusty Hope

I have a love

for pure reconnaissance.

The remit is to see it, to hear it

as a sounding of waves

as a collusion of faith.

But then

the eerie, hopeless

and faithless —

turn it to fodder

and holy hell

if I can’t stop her.

Horror chases me down,

& I lose it,

throw the damn board

(fuck you all) 

screw it.

But then,

the ambits resume, again

as a silent grace

probing for traces

in out of the way places.

Tarrying betide

trailing edges

for kisses, mutilous

or shred. Goes

straight to my head.