Reconstruction

Why not avow my poem
its restitution
and limn a buttercup
between the pauses of bare bones
that scrape against the tenor
with a more pale tone
I care not to enunciate

as lately my poetry
has deemed itself unlovable;
the air no longer snuffs
of lavender and milk,
but emits a more repugnant odor
like blue cheese or
decaying love

so why not dot little i's
with adolescent hearts
and purge the climate
of its gray matter,
I suppose thereupon
it wouldn't be my poem
anymore