one leg to the east, one leg to the west
it’s that old tito puente playing long into the morning… that same taste of vermouth that comes from drinking red shandy on the shores of mount everest. back home my friends are coining change into gundrops and i’m having none of it. evermore, evermore, while the dawn is cast in waves across the floor, while the plums are turning to prunes on the branches and the almonds are melting into marzipan in their shells, we make like blue bells and rinse our skin of the insects that burrow in our pores to lay their eggs in our veins and hatch in our heart and infest it like a parasite. the hot water runs.
the hot water runs.
i finger myself over the sink while kissing the face in the mirror.