My beloved, she tires of me, and she should—
I'm the buzz of incessant mosquitoes in her ear
in the early evening when the new Moon peeks
out in the West. I'm the sound that irritates
her listening, that verse that has intoxicated
her being with nefarious purpose. I am moving
between the leaves and under the bark of trees
as if I were the blood of plants. My beloved
is deserving of more than me, of more than stars
and entire galaxies, of more than mere words
and phrases arranged in stanzas. I'm the static
that fits between the stations, I'm dissonance
between disagreeable signals. My beloved
tires of the repeating aspects of my art.
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