Soot & Scum
into floors; hinges we
keep in
us, hook-up doors; I want
no
asbestos: I want your ass
more.
There’s scum under us,
mixed
into rugs; clouds ground
down
into skies, along with
lyres; it’s
topsy-turvy what gets
erected in
the world. I want your
hair curled.
What I want is something
wrung
out of me, only partially
with my
will; that’s the soot,
scum. Up the
bum of heaven is where I
belong—
you hold the portal open,
strong.
<< Home