he hates poems
well
i do too
he sometimes stuffs two tons of smog in his heart every once in a while diffuse them
into stone plagued veins.
he hates poems
that list nice things: soap
bar
arm
chair
hand stitched chapbook
sandal woods
buckled belts
a pipe winding throat
he’s not
telling me what he loves
i only know
he loves
any sort that
dissolved into
bath or birds
another burn button along my
back with his
cigarette
or foxglove in
1999
he patch my wounds
with slop from a bucket
he milk me, swirl me
spit me out
said he could see my spirit
like it’s stuffing puffing out
he makes his exit early and often
shaves his face and shape a half moustache
makes his egg the same way and adds tobacco
