bacon air smells like sex to me, thick grease same as mudflat sulphur mug, back porch delmarvaaah rattan rugs Adirondack chairs tryin best to be island livin this stuck fatty place, it coats the arms, makes heavy out of everything, the need orgasmic for relief.
i get a call on sunday about a sister’s husband. he has hung himself, what we know of each other, where her skin ends and mine begins now blur at the edges running into each other becoming each other globular masses of penetration soft, stunned at first as an animal body is still running aimless in space, moments passed losing its head
the chopping block filled with yellow deposits of lard. on the back porch i watch dragonflies come together, dance diaphanous air silking ringing rounding between them bending them toward the other then away, toward and together until, one incline one decline they catch, and ahhh for an instant together they move,
the locusts sing and the sensory melt of some stranger’s breakfast frying departs, clarifies the morning humidity. another average day almost making water droplets out of air, almost taking breath from liquid, almost clear