Drowse

Water under the world:



for value we curl & wind our wounds

to speak—for our awe

we circle our areolas with fingernails

lightly forming you—woman—I—man—

us—pudendae.


From nothing curls nothing sweet,

ink just stains on paper—

legends outride, walk ahead—

a festive little prayer—gentle little claws

the car famously goes no faster

bitter about this—it is true—

my sight shifts, rams across the license plate;

blood is not in the eye, then,

but before it, richly

running, turning & resurging below the conjunctiva

& proves the humanness of eyelid—

a questing hole into which is given

a perch for the light that we allow.


With a life meant to be with roam & verge

of covering—we sleep, we slip into this

insongg. We letter along our necks:

Honest lungs let out all poverty.

Talk with words; everything else slips together.