In an urban
Space fingers
Taper to tap
Never ever awash
In head-butting
spores
Boy staredowns
Fingers clench
In fists, strike
Face bone, nose
Cartilage,
contours
Of what it used to
mean
To be a man,
soil-stirring *
Deep, gone, gone,
gone
In an Instagram
minute.
Miss Lonelyhearts
Can’t think of his
name
The writer fleeing
the East
Nathanael West, he
says,
Can there be a
darker
Story? What she
wants,
Needs elude her,
Miss Lonelyhearts
Adam’s rib flung
At unmade
bedclothes
Fierce and hollow
eyes
Leave but a dull
note
On me as a woman
says to
Her friend-captive
over
Barbecued kohlrabi
Gowanus-style:
“My DNA is on Instagram.”
* Yes, I meant
soil not soul
Next: Running for Your Life: Open “The Door”
