The world says not to expect the world

But do it anyway— be made, all
out of love— taken, bestowed, lived
through, by means of, without
 
beauty we don't want
to waste & the world says it
wants, but trashes, sees as glut,
 
usable in a finite manner We like
talk of human forevers as holes in us
unfilled, we're raggedy apartments
 
Who to blame
deluxe in schism—runaways & orchids
tattooed on wrists or thighs As dull men scoff
           
we still say keep fighting,
& love me again— don't the pines die, too
& exactly with our names