)(())()(())(


That duck's chest and my left palm
ground into the tar's face
are thinking of a beauty that does not conspire
and our laundry money falls into a blood chute

tits over the porch rails make us wonder
how much better we are at thinking
in unison when we're not lost and
wounded--but remember having been

as the pantheistic bleach is funneled wet
into large cloth sphincters
the market's bread is now the duck's
and neither need teeth to digest

the national silver on my hand's web
the tar is not eating my essence
I have none--but I am breathing its


)(())()(())(