is the reason—
lungs swelled
to beasts,
legs to the grave,
the joy of nothing
happening—I,
strawberries & cream
still cold
under arm,
flick ashes to eagles
whilst waiting
for Hassle—
the name we
assign our new
bus/driver.
Surely, she knows
no empathy for the
poet/baker,
is absent the reason
we bandage thumbs
with painter’s tape—
hideous blues
hiding upper /cuts,
rejections?
fuck! five centos about Io
& Sappho
& Brussels
in the rain. In the frosting,
wet with Dione,
I came
to better understand
how to plot green dye
like Picasso’s Third,
how to lift heavy metal
and not hurt
lower back.
/I sneak a sip/
A pregnant girl rings.
Quarters whap,
I think
surely virgin thumbs / were made / for greater
