Parachute men & frogs, I … shuffled my tix.
Grasped here, with bits, in the neon, memory,
with the remaining hand,
we call for each other from the blue-black rushes,
hash & the gold rush girls, drag of the splaying sea.
When I pick up JB again
I won’t remember, boo. All will be, nude.
The street children are hazed. Sweaty & dull.
The mist in my face
weaving grass & fence—solitary mood—
alive in the sand. Water worms we pull
out from their dark place.
Where I laid narrow & moldy, mussed up hair.
Dancing beneath the blanket & legs,
the fear that she might wake.
There are too many bodies up the stairs
what I could kill now for some eggs,
the skeleton couple, twice baked.
