Christopher Davis
Love
Lacking all vocabulary
for softness, democracy,these wide shoulders trembling
winglessly, this jerk offeringup this fistful of daisies, little
white stallions, bone corral:one life’s bright sentence,
a coming heaven’s essence.*
In a theater of language, jacking
off self, I saw white noise rising.Laugh that that were laundry,
air around us both a boundarystuffed with stinks, Hamburger
Helper, patchouli, weed killer,shadows of phone lines criss-
crossing those leafless twigs.