Joining the Circus


The crags and pebbles are your face
and the sun stings like the tang
of lime, cilium tickle the cotton,
the folks smoke porches.
I am independent of a country
of independence, my constitution
irregular. I have diuretics of phonetics.
You have a vocabulary for amoebas,
that is, for speaking with them.
The train slides through the tunnel,
amongst other clichéd sexual metaphors.
There’s a rocking. My backne acts
up. That earlier-mentioned cilium—
flagellum for cotton zygotes: we own
this Southern legacy. Today I hammered
away at locusts. I missed everything
but my thumb. Now my thumb
has thickened into a hot air balloon.
It carries me skyward and from here
I see your face in boulders. We
could have joined the circus and thrust
nails through our nipples.
We’d have drowned in cotton candy.


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