What’s that gone-peached breeding-fly warning smell? Ripe skins blown taut, Am I a taut rope, am I convenient for your laundry?
Lovers for a week doesn’t mean lovers this week Desire nets us like black birds at the purple time Black walnut tree cut from haze outside my window
But the cicadas can decide to die, With relief, at last, winged rain
In a forest in Atlanta I loved to bat at a branch that hung over the bike path Come to find it was poison oak and that’s why my hands were all flesh-bumpy
That’s how I feel, needing play with someone that makes me itch pinky I am authorized to act autonomously I know the ground of my body: knowledge is a product of geography
House of cards collapsed into combat boots You smear, you cook twice with butter Flies play chess in the musty kitchenette And the leaves leave us: to come down is sacred
cdzhouse 