It’s painful.
To stand on your toes.
But then, if you don’t,
the wind wont call upon your bare ankles.
You may fall off the cliff,
If your famished fingers,
Quench a zephyr’s thirst too long.
But when your sweatshirt rides along your skin.
You can show your midriff off.
You can arch and bend,
Like poetry.
cross your legs,
And get drunk.
On the crescent moon.
And when your scars suture,
mindlessness of hope onto your bare skin….
you shear through the pregnant fog.
Chase your oh so sweet hangover…
Hold her tight in your arms..
Both lie panting…gasping..
On the bed of hay…
And laugh.
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