But where do the drains in the streets
go, that carry so much as rains seize
our hands; as if elements
in fear are unattractive, and she knows
the people who live there. Flesh from
roadkill dissolves into them, washed

like skin is a solution, solidity
and self-sameness an answer, so that
we walk holding everyone's hands under
a shit-for-sky, putrid underbelly
of her familiarity with them, their sick
kid she knows enough about, listing
his toys in the order of frequency

of use. I guess people leave all the
time, and it too must be down there somewhere.


=====


associate editor, _sidereality

http://www.sidereality.com/

——–

http://www.lewislacook.com/

tubulence artist studio: http://turbulence.org/studios/lacook/index.html









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