in your mane there is
mcqueen and mona and my
mouth there is
the minute you must and then don’t;
might you have a shrug to spare, an indifference
to look up to a heel for grinding out
all fires
and they say because
is not reason enough, a little pocket in your month
a stone between pillows and
dust between spit, leave your gutter happy
shine your damage you see
the sun she will wink
at anything.