these days
i look upon the weary throng and sink my teeth into the pith of dreary
but sup luscious the wrung jewel with my wet lips decanted in the mid night.
i clutch the vocal point in a deep silence and patch the quilt of our unusual tapestry
cinching the knot in our not known, knowing the difference is the same light.
i suspect the heresy of my devotion longs for pink sheets of syndrome and theory
but my church has no steeple. it merely goads hydrocephalic angels to play bingo
in the right light.
i kiss peaches where they hurt. i drive a hard bargain to drink; and I keep my worms
in apples that bob for your eyes.

but not for nothing.