For I Have Got
Oh, rigid; a tight, tight
squeeze
to fit back into a previous
version of life, a record
sleeved,
creased up, bent backed,
old,
which can no longer firmly
hold,
slipped in and it won’t be told.
Oh, pussy, pussy, my love
- gloves
too small sheath hands too
big,
two fingers in one gusset
won’t fit,
tangled up together and
crossed,
getting knotted, throb
with loss
skinning summer's teeth with
frost.
Oh, only half a mind lives here
that ponders on shifty
habits,
how the cowl clouds what’s
near,
close enough to see it
clear
in concrete wisp of
softening mists,
and ocean dappled sands of
tryst.
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