Burning Candygram

We call ourselves the future

country and mean to say final,

try to chew audibly enough

that we can find one another

in the unceasing night that swings

its black ax through us.

We’re attuned to crash’s register,

illnesses’ inscriptions, sharks

lingering near the spigot that raises

and raises some more the seas.

I refuse to argue—no energy—

and I won’t grovel. I need you

to enjoy me

nearly as much as an umlaut

changes the sound of the waves.