suburbia

and i can see Betelgeuse in the oil of your orbit 
Simon says to twist- contort; knots in throat 
i'd like to file a police report; don't hang up 
sneakers on the power lines
asphalt in your arteries
and i can see Polaris in the coil of your vertebrae  
like the weeds in concrete slabs 
curling guts in the hollows of ribs 
i'm hurling- you smell like sad things 
and your xerox copy fur looks so lovely 
in the suburban orange lamp light 
(i'd wear it if i could find the other pieces)