I knew a man.

He was made out of stamps.

He cradled a child,


a perpetual lifespan.


He whimpers while he sleeps

A language?

Spitting profanities like

gratitude, his hands made of blue yarn.


I knew a man.

He was made out of clay.

My nails made little smiles.

They creased with empathy.


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.


And when he sleeps,

it is under painful arches.

and when the shapes congeal

the dimensions are almost honest.


When it's the Symmetry Girls

with inexistent lips,

pasty and plaster,

in the dance of the fugitive.


When he cringes at the weight

of the maddening velocity,

spinning gold, fashions lures,

with the thudding of his irony.


Heis knitting,

they are rising acrimony,

they have manifested their allegiance,

but he is a housewife and a whore.

He has honed every word.