in wet summer i cannonball

pink-plated angry ruckus

down the halls. tearing

stretching my wingspan to pull

push bear at the air

like a fat-belly beetle overturned

by a cherry popsicle pinky

the drops birth

into the heat

marrying and darning

sticky linen sheets

hung in the air

dressing the road

in cattle prod glare

the rip cord pulls

and sets the sky a-spinning

pinching itself up–

up–

and down

into a swamp-grey pile of ground

my head splits and i do nothing

i won’t go back.

i twisted

something that day, stooped

in your doorframe. stained

velvet and yellow-blue

on the wake-up.

a fool looks like me,

joints bleeding,

peering through the keyhole.

one for leverage, one to pick—

westbound east polk street

hung from the signpost

he calls me:

count each sixth cervical edge

in 6/3 time.

something above has placed us

in that great spinning drum.

you; sandpaper and grit.

a relief, to trace

each edge without a prick.

every night i sing

the same pounding on high:

i want to live more and drink less.

i want to sleep in your bed.

your systole sustains

the metal frame

hum. tell me

mine doesn’t beat the same.

set unto me,

lit and sputtering.

allow me detail

every bundle and branch,

block and contusion. lay

posed in vitro, two doe

in the aftermath

of an ax.

reproduction swimming,

settling. trust

in the weight of my hands

to not betray.

the shinko flowers but never bears.

another summer hungry.