the gift that keeps ungiving

her dark arts
and pale arms
were spread
large
accepting my
lunar tics these
half-witted quips and
verbal cheap tricks my
instinct
dictates
(displaying defense
as gifts)

seems she sees
this mess as
the me
that I
want to be
not the oft
bridge burnt
wreck that
presents itself
constantly
with self-
fulfilled
prophecy
un- or sub-
consciously
collecting
the ghosts
and dashed hopes
that haunt
as he
shakes
in shades
of dusk and
decries
the night
he smothers
sparks & signs
of possible light

of passable life

of that one last
last chance
at getting it
right