Page 95 - Iterations:Other/Is

there...the bee, weather in its copper palms
down heels over two giving hickeys on creaking deck; the bathroom hinges loiter, creak
my uncles gashed elbows a
void, pours into a system outlet
there...a detour marked by ampersand bound
*
let’s rest in their fasting belly on the way home & smooth palms on each other, in secret our aunts declare in overlapped shadows the nightly news, how
the commonwealth is a bored & broken wishbone
split without wish
suitcase half empty, bald underneath and in fucks, sands