Soldier Of Love

What’s worse, having to buy your Kotex
or having to put up with your bitchiness?
The orange sun licks its own doors,

dozens of dangling legs.
The kind you see in London
lob the grenades of grime.

Peeled paint can not hold on
to your name anymore.
Bricks linger in a meadow,

their rectangular ages
scorch my pockets,
stone upon stone,

grinding dust exposed to the tenderness
that recoils from tenderness.
Not much you can do about love.