to our leader: free us to the squash blossom
bare beach and sand glass, to the sweat street and temple pulse
plastic bagged asphalt filled boxes of knives, durians,
i know you know where to cut, rotating men, your tip jar
full as garbage pail
i know your corners
make me thirsty then fill me up like
a park of pigeons or highway motorcycle lung i
am learning to breathe again and you
already know where to cut
