Pick Into


You love that woman
with every pound
your bones carry.

Whistling lemons into
a vodka glass,
your eyes are glass with a
lavender look.

Carrying the weight of
the 3 closest planets to
the
sun.

You walk the earth,
trading nothing
to put vinegar on the plate.

You rough son-of-a-bitch,
cut from the right navel of skin.

That love shakes in weights
the largest black crow shies away from.