Yearning for winter in July
not always, but this July, yearning
music pours through a body
-a spaghetti-water-drainer-
cold steam, memories enlaced
-1’s filter and bucket-
a life, -a photographic collection,
evanescence-
a life, mapped out in songs frags
stones prickling-skin
the boisterous booming of door slams
shattered plates
the suppleness of a breast a car-ride
and alls combination,
carousels, carousels,
grass is chest hair, the black-curls
on 1’s head
forever linger in the presence of her
strokes,
a tower, forty-acres away, absent
when it leans,
tower to sky, sleep waits two doors down,
carousels, carousels
a body, self-destruction, every poem,
each half-
memory, no more liquid than the holes
1’s emotions pour through
a body, an infusion of electric particles,
waiting for the day
shock therapy ends, begins, an isosceles
is a circle, sense,
is a nonsense, metaphor without concrete,
like, the crux,
crux. Like, “like” the crux, crux,
pivot, pivot,
places webbed in different time paces,
cities, cities,
a plane caught between a hundred airports,
cannot land,
never quite makes the page.