blur and then blush and then
an ode to the cleaner, his long-handled
stick. stickiness. i stick to you
like glue. like the pungent wipe of disgrace
that would not leave my hand after eating. once
i took this same plane as the return
from adultery. i wondered what i would
tell you. that's not true. i knew
exactly the words i would employ, with what
hatchery and hatchetery i would bloodily
birth it, serve it
to you ugly and born
on a plate.
43 minutes.
we accelerate from space,
emptiness solid to something slightly
less so, a mist, half
tasted flavor, an old ring, or the cobble
crack cinder heel hair breast red
chest and tortured. ground.
i would like to call this love.
i would like it
very much.
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