Swerve

It could not last, it was worn like dahlias
too close to a fence, petals scratch-plated.

Born out of wedlock, it was not circumspect
or well-behaved, it was a bawdy tawdry thing

that elation, elevation, escalation; it was un-
stable, it was foolish, she did it clumsily,

she did it because it was the only thing to do
and woke with her coat still drenched on the door

her shoes ruined and her heart wrapped with tarnished
reds ringworm-style, she woke with rain seeping

out of her pores, leaving her. She woke alone
and aware of it, she woke undesired, unkept, her eyes watered

for hours and she wanted to hang herself like tinsel
over the sleep tree, to turn slowly in a hot-fanned wind.