Hello to the little feeling,
lingering despite the concentrated focus
against it. My heart
is a muscle of some sort, located in my chest.
I’m not vague in an attempt to be artful, there’s no face
to explain the cause. My stomach is an acid
filled sac in my abdomen. Yet you have to admit
its rather ironic Frank O’Hara fell at the hands
of a dune buggy. I’m not quite sure the difference
between my limbic system and my neocortex.
There are globs of warm glue leaving
strings on the velvet, my thumb hangs
a bit too far. The hot gun should just brush
my skin but the pain is so distracting I can’t
remember to pull away. I bet the leaves falling
around his mound whisper to him in exclamation
points. My fingerprint is red and impossible to make out.
This poem is about: