To this is the point of a pin covered in angels without end, folded over a neutron, a quark. A woman’s face framed in brunette, lying in a field. What a tune. A fish? I cut strings with the gap of my teeth. Gargle this smile, the smell of cauliflower warming in plastic. I like you better peeling and the skin of you—fake leather—gashed and thrown away. The use of a single electrical socket full of slim fingers. Yes, 200. This is the turn of leaves in wind waiting for the coming storm as my temperature breaks and falls back in a wave—sucking out the oxygen.
Published by KeiferMay
Keifer May is a young poet and essayist that lives in Fort Wayne, Indiana with his loving, artistic partner. He has been published in Confluence. He is sending poems to small presses as he works on finalizing his first chapbook (how ironic). View all posts by KeiferMay