Dirty Mike

Ambling, up-to-fifteen where
to find Michael—

“Your repast awaits your mouths”.
Bright position; a pink,
ruby cleavage
of pleasuring anesthetic.

Fly-toting; Greased up to a sheen,
a mane this dispirited moment.
The eschatological will always
suggest it is: to return to what’s known,
a timid love and topaz cold.

Did the sensitive-to-a-time,
stranger pedestrians, without
effort, have a register to do-that-in?

The open-air-hello (Allen, off of
De Quincey) out-of-a sign
we awake to: exiting the head.

A secret spun, the constriction
drained. A simplex of systems,
leaves, trunks, toots ambiguous.
Measuring beyond diminished;

How did I begin to spray,
apprised of accretion,
only smarting after spring?

The secure for a lifetime’s
work, weekends of luck,
begetting the drowned—
a seeding and hibernation.