Soot & Scum

There’s soot under us, mixed

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.