Poem 1

I pin church-glass
Butterflies on walls and
Call it love,
Stroke neon dots on their
Pretty hind wings, rejoice
In their deaths, and
Call it love.
Like a petty landlord,
I have come to define
Essence in ownership,
Love, possession,
The eternal preservation
Of a murder.
To love is to own,
Be mine, and to surrender,
I'm yours,
A completely consensual,
Admirable exchange,
The utter dissipation
Of one's solitary soul,
A voluntary confinement
To escape the sacred act
Of letting go.