Monday, July 14, 2014

poem || Keith Higginbotham


and full;

the sex’s skin closet the redness
the sidewalk communion baggage—
thirty years old, behind advice

daylight is skin it is malted
peacefulness, a plastic pillow, napalm
juice just where the words hurt

dirty faces their heads cloud me that utterly
my winter clothes no imagine
see: my back scooping the menace

of gender I’m almost clear about
the stupid pleasure of everything

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