you'd been doing your animal asking, dipped your whole head into the creek and then poured out onto the dirt. it would be easier like this, dulling extremes, waking up with mud lashes. it would be a short time more, then a stillness you can only agree upon with yourself. screaming has always stuck in your throat, it's why you scratch and husk, it's how you can be the static on the other end of the line. it's round, this rolling off feeling into a splash. someone's made the perfect ice ball so you pour and pour, you're not going to waste its slope, you're going to pour you out.
i sing the anger refrain on the new low line
while i mother the poems into shape. one has guts, i tuck and untuck them until there's enough room for breathing but not so much that the body will pulp off. i've torn up my contract with gawd but we're amiable: i know you're not real and you know i let a letter spiritualize anyway. the only thing we talk about's the bottle, the bottom. when you're the ship you have to be taken out piece by piece. some feeling comes up to my chin, i keep my lips dry. wasn't it me who asked to feel it? it would be so easy to put me in your pocket, please don't do that.
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