my wasted vim

to rip apart a bodice
to push aside a beer bottle
these are not things,
to kiss along a muddy track
under the ragged winter tree
these are not things,
to talk with our minds
to meet some place above us
become white conjoined things
one locked and stable idea,
these are not things
which will happen to us.

we will fumble forever
never speaking to one another
and pitying ourselves
and blaming society,
O Fuck, for my wasted vim!