I want to fuck you lonesome.
I want to teethe rocks and spit gravel.
I want to suffuse you with irony.
I want the world to open with your clubfoot.
I want the apple tree hanging with used condoms.
I want a spare bedroom when we argue.
I want to gird my lines with peristalsis.
I want a cheap hardback volume of Frost.
The sting of the lily pad/the softness of the bee.
Like Kinnell's Fergus coming to the ground of his making.
The plain breath spent on this: the Blackburn journal.
Odin One-Eye. Robert Creeley. Jim Harrison:
Odd fellows I've come to love especially when I bleed.
I want to find a street corner named Marylebone
--and roost there, toothless.
I want to seize your gentle ear with my lips and tongue.
What poetry strives for best is living language aptly said.
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