Work Text:
Dancing, moles migrate across where thunder marks skin—
I tire and forget a sweet itch within;
I rest a full head of vines in soil.
By sunlight hours, these dots have found new homes
and
coat themselves in neat argyle, fat and oil
coat their backsides.
Backsides hanging out, hanging in
the square for folk to witness when
I slumber, they scurry
and
make much progress,
proceed with the slow-burn
crawl
on flesh that is harsh on grain
on twos then fours then fives then a main
number of pride
and
sadly, body.
Sadly body badly behaving.
Behaving can be quite the feat. The feet
be having raw malt for lovers; I, for
behaving, reward myself with the same kiss
a flower leaves behind on
a bumble bee’s behind on
work on
beehiving.
Find honey diving in your thirsty soul.
Soul-seek sought
foul-speak fought,
so be it a fowl’s beak caught.
So be it a nil to naught, a thrill to thwart an arm around a neck
with thought. With blood, with veins and reins around a deck
of cards with only aces,
of hooves with only races—
cloven kings neigh steam from faces
woven, rings weigh less than air expelled in traces
through an old bull and his older, solder lungs.
Lungs fill while crops grow heavy.
Lug hills while hilltops grow further, heavy
luggage kills while kill-shots grow into murder, heavy
luxury wills while will-nots grow on us,
honest,
lying in hay in heap in lust.
Lust but not last but not least,
lest clay gives dust and ash to yeast, a thick loaf
rises.
Surprises frost and frosting against the scalp of winter—
slices thinner and silver thinning down
against a knitted nightgown,
against a borrowed brown
crust of a cold crown
of folded frown
of the town
you dream
of.