I press my pruned and puckered fingers to the face
of this town, searching for any handhold
on some dark farmer’s road, a crease with which to hoist
myself— some sidewalkless street to stalk
the center after dark, and find no fear in barking
dogs, turns not chosen by a stomach qualm, nor erect
hackles as guides— firm footing for the climb.
This place is sheer and steep. I stand
in tepid, weeks-old water, littered with soaked and broken
husks of cat-tails, once swollen, now
flacid.

The scents of sex and sweat soak my sheets
in this trench, I crave the stench of asphalt, the sting
of smoke in my eyes, the taste of traffic.
As my toes numb and fog oozes up from fields,
obscuring stars and fuzzing a white blanket of the lights
from town, I scrape at stone, knuckles warm and raw—
paint my name red across this place.
Feet heavy, pantlegs soaked and frozen, I kick,
claw, climb atop each letter to the rim— throw my arms
free of this ravine, grasping for roots, rock, something
solid.

poems: alphabetical || chronological
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ChaoSpirals