one hot azalea
flicks my helpless cheek
I don't want it to stop petalling
I don't want it to stop petalling


angular people with angular instruments
angling their way into soft things
while the soft people try to find each other
with the soft ribbons of themselves left
from the angular people's cuttings


drunk in the ashes of the morning
stunned by trash smells on a mattress
low in the high house, departing a white hive
for the sun, driving a pink shear into each thigh
to kill the curdling skin, ready for cleansed
teenagerhood with an adult-in-arms


emergency alcohols at hand,
gliding everything unrestrained
over the polished wood
toward the open mouth of the telephone.
Time shouldn't be like this. Money shouldn't interfere.