-A Love Poem-
Think about your armpits.
Now stop.
Why did I say that?
Now there are hairy damps. Finger
vices. Bristling.
Like a car accident. The shatter.
Squirm metal, and now
we turn. Just above your
elbow a cockroach.
Everyone slows because
viscera slices are neckworthy.
We can puncture.
Or fold what skin should flatten.
And don’t mention toes.
Now, we need to talk.
It’s about you,
I mean, it’s about
protruding.
I didn’t mean to laugh.
But under the wax paper,
just where your tail bone rubs;
there is prowess.
Someone hangs pimples
in their living room
just above a black leather
recliner.
When the sun hits it,
your ankles move.
