I am racked with wanting


hanging meatless on a spit

over heart’s fire

flush and fat on the outside

you wouldn’t know it by looking

except in my lean sidewalk eyes

searching, dusty and torn and silent

now unshelved and scattered and screaming

listless atop loose gravel whose hair

comes out

one strand at a time

questions kicked up in clouds, and now

falling again

cracked in three ways, perfect

120 degree angles

like clay

a cracked smile, a crooked tooth

a fine-bearded silty loam valley and

centuries away

where the hearths roar under pregnant clouds each evening

pull me

by my bloodied index finger, ‘cross

deserted towns in my mind

to the place

where I stick in the mud


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