1383

abdicated a little

enough to

sew new flags

what’s that insignia

underneath my nails

all the little days

and clay pots pile up

the temperature hasn’t changed

but the sun has

I’ve become proficient

at pulling hair

from underneath my nails

not like that time

I judged your friend’s poetry

for his back to back

prepositions

and your eyes rolled

into your head

and I know why you only

like my poetry with your name

in it

everything else

just a tilting statue

of a man tilting

imagine that

imagine a river moving slow

along your teeth

or your feet