In response to "Untitled" work
/
Be mine you sweet filibuster
skimming my pores is this dirt, it pirates my viens, and I lie about
my colors: hazel is true, blond is false and so
I fall from the roof tops the firemen come
with their biceps and duct tape
putting me together again we all pretend as
everywhere the atmosphere blows into our heads
it lifts up our bed sheets, presses into our skin the dates of
our deaths, firings, heartbreaks. Let’s thank god
we can forget how our grandmothers once sang to us--
and you. You are like everything pointing that finger against
the street obstructing the center line
as I stand here sleeveless
petting the dahlias.