“Arguing Over Nothing”
It suits you in half clay
on a riverbed far away
breasts and breaths
to the windows of your soul
a beacon too
fog-bled in a fist of nuns, low to low
and bra buckles,
burn sweetly leaf,
and phantom oneness
I’ll leap from every arrow
forever forward of you
fed to the dead grass of leftover arms
and skin
in a nauseous gaze
deciduous as the disease
the laughingstock is undressed
forever silt to your stockings
what’s the point of a tongue
when all you taste is bullseyes
on your backward lives.
nicholauspatnaude 