I should have worn gloves this morning

[Kailashana]

You whistle a tune I can't wrap my heart around
discordant blues, I think,
a pop melancholy on the brink;
fickle,
sometimes the penny drops, sometimes it doesn't
but it's all music just the same,
I'm a pole dancer trapped inside your bicameral mind
(interred in time and ferocious place)
round an' round we go
does familiarity breed the taste of contempt?
is the seldom leaf a master without master?

Ah, but there is beauty in the beast!
(what did we eat other than cold daylight?)
A poet conceals poetry and feeds loneliness with perplexity,
but for the turning of the night in another's arms.

Go home now. Shiva destroys.