On the stoop. You hear a deadbeat shake
moan and turn. She burns parallel to us.
It's here and I say Drop from a sky's there
and I will be your mouth. See how this critter
hush takes us in a chain of chins
far far south towards the mural on my head.
My clutter can be your next house. I love our
mistakes, baldy, and I'm saying the parade
passes us by, implies our house. There's nothing
I want to say in the way of "brutal honesty."
I'm rough on clothes, bright on skin, and it's
fine. Polish off the gristle. Flunk too soon.
Let me gift you your shining fists so
we can crash the party between them.