to mister so and so, when were you ever 39?

this place that holds so much promise for you,

is a symbol.

the yellow grass, the powerhouse, statues matted

with bent knees and human mouths that vomit,

body procured to things that seem to lend themselves toward belief

and you are already

balding, slightly, beautiful and almost delicate

hand that breathes

knocking over chairs upon grace, o,

rudimentary and disreputable candidate!

i can't imagine your

thought as my thought, or of how

i lent your rattling automatic eye blue,

isn't it? i carry your weight in my bed as a thought

and today i imagined my breast pressed in your mouth.

bruised voice cut open with a bone

breaking open purity necessity like a wet melon, or a wound,

festering in a nest of a corner tucked inside your room.