But do it anyway—        be made, all

out of love—     taken, bestowed, lived

through, by means of, without

beauty we don't want

to waste            & the world says it

wants, but trashes, sees as glut,

usable in a finite manner             We like

talk of human     forevers as holes in us

unfilled, we're raggedy apartments

Who to blame

deluxe in schism—runaways & orchids

tattooed on wrists or thighs      As dull men scoff

we still say        keep fighting,

& love me again—   don't the pines die, too

& exactly          with our names