i
am outside of someone
who
loves me. i look
back
into her eyes. hear
what
rank scents come out
from
her voice. hate her
pleasant
greetings
cracks
in the concrete, for growth. when
my
head sits spinning at the warm breath
the
sigh of peak, or supple skin
rubbed
against me, a magazine, a movie
without
smile, or embrace, or fulfillment
it
can be fear. (as then, as all her
ambition
frightens me) it can be that. or
fear.
as when she ran from me into
her
service
or fear, the heart
brown
and muddied cast into the
earth,
lower than even alter boys
thought
Diablo would be
or
fear. and the other. the maybe. (inside her thoughts,
her
rouge toenails, they are fixed images and were never
free.)
growth,
expanding as the fern, the stealthy
virus.
a teen ball player in mid season.
or
the cold snow in its heap.
cold
words flowed thru tense deaf ears. growth,
sinewy,
twisting, and tight. stretched as the bubble
with
its gum. it is an alien hostility
i
live outside. an emaciated hobo
you
recognize as beat or simple passion
but
it has no passion. as the concrete is stiff
it
is not given to tenderness
it
strikes that thing
outside
it. and that thing
cries
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