The Cottage

I began by tilling

The land

Really tilling

Splintered handle

Rust

twenty -two in a wifebeater and

Cutoff shorts and sweat

And I kept tilling

Chiseling away 

Within your confined

Spaces

And I found love

Real love

A few times

That pumped through my veins

Deep into my

Soul

And then 

An iron 

Fist 

Left the glass empty again

And again

And more than

A

Few nights

Cross-legged

On the kitchen floor

Writhing in

Pain

From the 

Empty vessel

But I

Immersed

My hands into

The earth

And we all

grew

But sometimes

In the wrong

Direction

By the end

The rugs were

Stained

With damp expectations

Left to 

Clean up 

Tomorrow’s mess.

But we were always 

Together 

You protected

The deepest

Incoherencies

That unraveled

Within your

Walls

And I always came 

Back 

To your

Isolated

The last day

You sent me 

Purple-green

Blooms as a

Thank you for

Looking back.