By Chris Picone, 2017

Brackish delta, grease on paint.

Vulgar bosom denied its fate.

Gossamer curtains flutter, sway –

Flagellation, irritation, brown stain won’t go away.

Set it aside. Tick, tock, I’m always right.

Smoke drifts, light fades. She’s forgotten.

Have you? Depravity forgives in green leather boots.

The soul has collapsed. Fuck me? Fuck you!

Solidarity broken, surrounded by steam. Sinuses clogged,

I’ve forgotten? Still green.

Another hole presents. Enjoy the ashes - that fire’s burned.

The rash has gone, the salt can recede.

Four, Seven, Ten, too many.

Wispy pretence, like smoke, fades.

Green is now blue.

Vinegar begrudges, but does not hate.

Above-ground burial, from which Daddy protects.

Gnarled roots and sky snakes quiver with anticipation

as leather breaks but the skin is sealed.

Tears and jeers crash against the visage but cannot anneal.

Pink flowers aren’t forgotten, nor the honey, nor the yield.