I take boys to stormy canals
to swallow the rain in their blood.
Shadows spread beneath our forest
and foul chants rip at that yellowed sun like
Sweet sweet symphony fingers crushing through time.
A drooling hound must worship a drunk friend like you.
She walks to her faucet and lights a match.
A flame shoots out like a blowtorch.
The hair on her right arm singed
she says, “Well? What do
had round hearts
don’t drip in
to bigger bodies.
is a flow word
while we fake.