Bartering on Rooftops with
Celestial Bodies
This time like a tickling of dry
thorns dulling
To a nub in trails against my
abdomen
Until the penetration and the
sensation of imprint
Is all but merged with the
static parts of me
In wait in blood and skin
with a garden mapped
Of pale soil and hoed with
scare crows
Growing older in this
September on the verge
Spring time lessons never
learned
To drink a sterile concoction
inebriated on the notion
Of her bathtub moonshine
draining in a pipe
Right out the sky trickling
into my rooftop tongue
Open to the heavens and
knowing none
Will ever fall, just waiting
for this all
To make more sense some
number of days from now
Numb to the nub of how dark
and placid
The response to all the
wishes I could ask
Falling like a star, like a
heated argument
Burning into dust, will we
ever see the cost?
Of these nights lost, waiting
on rooftops
Tickled to death
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