no one says to the other,
"It
is
all
one to me,
sexuality
&
the trucking industry."
Break open ourselves,
but there are not enough selves
to go around.
The littlest finger on the left hand
on which so much hangs,
sings his silent serenade.
What are you doing?
Where are you going?
The lightning will sting your eyes.
A particular formation of clouds–
I am not referring to my mother,
the
gypsy -
is
learning to speak,
finer cold she should not have to think.
And now they want back their nothing.
But the few I do have
actually I don't have.
The mattress
is
disembowelled.
When you
call
her name, Wanda
falls into a deep sleep,
the littlest finger on her left hand
is
mugged by lint.
I was confused
then I got used to it
as I got used to whiskers.
The laugh
is
bitter
&
forced
flat as a hungover Sunday school teacher
all
beat-up by the blight
of the truth of the night before.
There, apologize, for thinking.
A pinched
&
brittle smile.
Throw a handful of magic
purple dust in my eyes .
