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. |