the man
I’ve only
just met
sober

     but have
     arm in arm
     week one
     through week
     three
     been jolly
with

is

     for the sake of his mother

revising

his life
cycle
from

****, sadness, balloons

to

sadness, ****, balloons

---

     it is either my attention span or my nakedness
in concrete poetry
that keeps me
from god

     (when a scar of thunder / outs itself / I am blue)

or bluish

     (like a sock in a blue
      coat’s
      pocket)
      
---

     by the
of a sudden
time
the man
is tolerable
he ha(s)
a number of

rethought

balloon