I hate that young man:
he wants her to keep his cunt
in her back pocket,
and he hears it laughing.

She is no longer slender enough
to move through a modern town
without painting a few smoky people
with her non-vital organs.

And I hate that boy:
when she feels herself becoming plump
with every movement on the sidewalk,
she also feels him, following her.

I want to take out the cords
from his excited neck
and watch him wobble around like a sick turkey,
trying to look at her.

And I want her to place her breasts, so sore
from being hunted, in my hands
by bending forward, to rest her brain
in my lap, while he watches from a wrecked triangle:
the brokenness of the stupid shapes
he's created in the air with all his watching.