i disconnect, hauled from the air, a sky paradise.
not even justice rocks. i want change – to expand, regress. frequent her
places: Byron, she says – dies in red-stained frills no detergent
put like that, i suck. am dense. there’s
no ghost where she was – on the stairs; you hit
brick beyond which
brain-freeze, wave; some fabled beast ─ just
this is the face that presents itself: the rider
tied to a post, doing the rounds;
Diogenes, in my loins; rolling dung, pure
mind. free even if. i’m beaten
& i don’t like it.