a poem a day for a year #319

I used to to sing the Talking Heads song without irony.
This is not my beautiful wife from a fat mouth in a hamlet in Ohio.
And once a many years back I thought I was aware of the way the world ended,
with a goddamn whimper.
But today I find myself huddled in a garden in the cold November night and I'm all lost.
And I'm all open and raw and seeing how this is one big accordion fold,
opening and within the creases fall lives and pain and magic and sex and death and dreams
dripping with the sharp intake of breathe
just hoping that you can burn so hard
and so long that you do get what you want.
Just hoping that you are the lucky one.
I'm so hot with wine that the moon can't even touch me.
My skin is steam against this ordinary Thursday.
And I'm sad like velvet,
like a rough cat tongue tonight.
How did I get here?
This is not my beautiful life.