I began reading out of spark,
but this little thing has me growling
and I can’t help, but to feed
knee to head and crouching
cornered against walls of a busy cafe
where there are more jaws buzzing and even more capitol
in the money and these flies drone me out
and the words push me in
towards the heated center of feeling
if my heart were a room then it would have an open window because
the fuzzy thing about the lift is that it chooses my head
on top level
to the inclement of mood and allows no cumber
set hallowed and watching
where an angel has fallen,
superfluous in feather
not from grace or worry,
but from break on my lungs with
none of the bulk
and all of the beauty
I am rinsed,
sunken in
revert to push another sell
and the mouths stay open
because the chump will abide
by the cold fortune honey
caught short-changed
and pudgy
looking like the pulled skirt of mother with
curled hands in a toast of the coming season’s weather
and as day pours at fold lines,
the flies really make a killing
which can make a man take notice
of the birds,
and their singing.