listless, tongue twist
the litany of love, call and response till death do us
part
standing on a street corner in his head,
'c'mon baby', rubbing legs like a cricket,
recalling playful jabs as he carefully tears them apart-

again and again and again.
the clip- clop of a police horse is the soundtrack to a rapture
hand slips against the condensation,
the thrill of fire and ice, cold burns
the moon reflects in his eyes, lunar purity
in a puddle of stale water.