A weather report

Wanting old naivetes till the ankle folds

                                          one foot sideways       

a given fuck    flat and quietish

 

Rotting fish gas would shimmer

                        over pavement heat

 

By the Coop

the skin on the back of his head

thumbprint peels as mine was

     an empty paper cup wetted by half-arsed rain

 

What glisters in eye’s milk but

                  splinters of non-

 

Today: temperate me.

Fingers equal digits.

Civil pile on of vertebrae

by crenelated church skirt