1
For the man getting home late to the line. He calls calling with a
miniaturist’s awareness (cold to touch), though somewhere still on
fire. He couldn’t write to save the monsoon in his eye. Twinkling
cities in competing moats. Louchely entering together the lesser gulf
as it hammers down like fibers
in a cut card mill
before the shower.
Meniscus augur & hour of errors as the mercury rag spills its rings
from his last good pore, his teeth shaped in greenhouse suet or little
expectant pots of orchid balm in snow. Once showed the erection
tricks in his spam, the gulf’s hourglass of vertebrae returned to sand,
the script. Running just running after the warm.
We gnawed our brackets straight through the bee man’s boy.
