The Fall Of Troy

my thumbprint on your lips
the simmering inside of you

a pocketknife of hair
hollers from its haunches

I take a pencil with me
to the quarry

I love you in a narrow ore
I fought the Trojans for you

wearing only a bell for armor
the sun finally set like wine

if I have only won your past
is that enough

Hercules or lichen
climbed on by a beetle

perhaps in another life
not being loved suffices