wary weary of the tempest in him
his soul’s dainties
      as in a gruff wind
between buildings downtown
a sculpted modern
woman
      keeps her hands tight
to her thighs
to keep her skirt
            from flying up!

He drank a lot
and fell into the river
we waded out to get his hat
A man who’s really good at what he does
looks the same as other men

Suzanne, tell me if dying is like those       sounds
before opening eyes: the sharp caw,       the
train’s moan, the school bus revving       across
the street.

The day is dark before it is day and so I curl back to sleep but cannot forget a thing: pots and pans, tumblers, an object shaken.

[         ] The Samian whore Nika
fed me over-ripe figs [           ]


and lentils dressed in fish sauce


[                                              ]


so I treated her


            to a bit of my butt music