Would us feel any more natural
Any less like apologetics and pastlicks
Of a strawberried tongue to a hot iron
And nothing but raw pounds of wirey
Lactic and festering flesh to eat?
would the air we share equally be
breaths slipping and surging in every knot
and bulge of greasy stony pink blackness?
Would the left hand of righteous
Nestle close to the tiny lines of little bones
Of the half dead and humorless hare heads
Held fast to earth by long past drivers
Crush what the right would save?
Would our clasping fingertips feel the
Breaths slipping and surging in every knot
And bulge of greasy stony pink blackness?
Would we believe me if I said
“I was alive in the fristening moment-”
