i love it so much when you see a looker and walker in the sun and wind
looking straight ahead or slightly down
with eyes sliding up sometimes to see again for the first time the tops of buildings always entered at the lowest runoff point
sliding down sometimes to interrogate turnless stones

this eye wandering distracts and more sharply attunes the looker and walker to the smile
the smile that is trying to kickbox its way onto the proscenium of the eyes, mouth, and probably the hands and the whole body
and to the spark that started all this kickboxing in the first place

let's not be doomed by the settlement of what we want
instead of discovering what we do now.

Light chickens out, light resists and
short-circuits accidentally. Light can,
supposing the time was passed
and the roast was forked,
it can draw us into a scratch.
Light proffers a skip, two skip
three skips away, leaves to question
those asking after the color.

Light bleeds out from a finger in the eye,
a nail in the corner of horrid sketches
that etch a late offshoot, a straight mongoose
chasing kraits for alimony.

Slurping love and licking our hands
sogged with a cream to soften the skin,
slippery enough to jinx action by type-speed,
bleached with complacency; such is the pitch.
and the turnless, sweaty scream.