to the thirteenth apostle

poetry is like love

no one can tell you
when it hits
or why

but you still have to
work it out
all the same

even if
the next line
is just a line


sneaking into the shower
after he's asleep
(don't worry

nothing happened
except in this bathtub
where

i find meaning in empty lines
where pretense turns
to a sort of

unsaid common sense


my heart expands
and my furtive hands
move faster and faster

in rhythm of release
and there is no guilt
from above the spine

and i finally understand
how to hold
what cannot be mine