on a line from Amy Leach’s “Things That Are” I have never made a flower, never have I pressed myself through dirt, me as
Once a neighbor boy unzipped his pants at me in the woods. We were twelve or eight or who knows how old, but his
1 In the parking lot his skin hums cherry blossom & hers honeysuckle returned wild summer takes & takes
The vital jolt, the spark of life, the fifth humour still unseen, the pouring of protons across a membrane that somehow leads to twisty