before it was a metaphor First scrape fat from skin, turn to sun what never felt light, in vitriol bathe open wounds, sear to
You lie in the bowl, not to bite into life, not to spray juice into air or bounce off branches rolling the distance. Your
The old men are sitting on their back porches, watching Isaac Babel’s stern-looking goose flying above the lake. Soon it will be twilight, the
When you are an old man, you will still collect them, these co-eds with coral cheeks, seashell pink lips. You say, let them mouth
