Man gets to the top of the screen
and clicks to join the pigs early
for the secret joys of that blue dawn
I have nausea, cigarettes, coffee
Pure water for my night throat
I find cover for shy covert looks
four faces at an intersection
whose quiet cannot wither
Whose graves carve a black moon
into the earth soaked with runoff
spit at them all on the streets
crush their toes under their vehicles
The good mother has songs planned
her pale babe spittle sun seeds
their bright sound and skin bless'd deep
by an aging poet, flap a Chinese fan
\/\/\/\/
