I knew a man.

He was made out of stamps.

He cradled a child,

stillborn,

a perpetual lifespan.

x

He whimpers while he sleeps

A language?

Spitting profanities like

gratitude, his hands made of blue yarn.

x

I knew a man.

He was made out of clay.

My nails made little smiles.

They creased with empathy.

x

And then he is the bad man.

He makes love to their cement bodies,

as he's trailing rings of gravel and

names ripple through his chest like cities.

x

And when he sleeps,

it is under painful arches.

and when the shapes congeal

the dimensions are almost honest.

x

When it's the Symmetry Girls

with inexistent lips,

pasty and plaster,

in the dance of the fugitive.

X

When he cringes at the weight

of the maddening velocity,

spinning gold, fashions lures,

with the thudding of his irony.

X

Heis knitting,

they are rising acrimony,

they have manifested their allegiance,

but he is a housewife and a whore.

He has honed every word.