A trendy restaurant
will be gone very soon.
When they are drawn, plumb
the orange eyes whose
walls sizzle like a beefsteak.
Then kiss ’em at square one
on the half-lips of this snapshot.
Which can’t be read because
it’s a feeling of my pants
and soles, bar none.
I say it has to be the
whole enchilada; a pepper
of at least enough fire that
keeps me comfy; not one that
gets my fists clenched about.
Of what is ourselves? Our
selves that won’t smoke
like when being hard-
pressed into a stony girder.
Here is myself.
I sat this down before
I started but the smack
of a fist on my nostrum was
the doozy what burned me.
When yourself catches me
in a groundhog headroll while
breathing over the audience
of dancers who never watch.
