You are wet. Credits.  

 

Blue lintel 

 

Banana balancing
a scale, I do not care; it will be mine— 

 

The modern guillotine

 

The horse balks.  

 

Suddenly, the party devolves
into a cartridge planner: the shape,
the mold, the energy. If only
it had been a wolf
God would have let us stay
in the tournament, bent
over each other, crucifix
in the drop-ceiling. 

 

The body in the desert half-
beaten into sausage. 

 

One can see the effort to “keep it real”

searching the dust for more
that does not show 

 

In winter
prison turns to ice
horse shuffling in song—
Christ, the rib, Authentic Death,
grammar born of cockleburs. 

 

Converted cripple, she kisses
with no agency
cool to raw, you got that right.