Little Propensity

The inside sea does not ask—

it nags and sits, salmon-belly

smattered, adjusted, misfit.

Someone says cuddle, sincerely

means snuggle but still

the night spins through a song.

I grew into my jeans, cleaned

jelly jars for drinking, and held

one thought never taking a swig—

I carved this cave and called it love.

And I care so much what I think.

January Pose

The snow snows up a pretty thing—

escorts a vacant patio just so.

A waitress’s hands and feet wait

on us hand and foot. I ask for cream.

This winter squirms in to stiffen

our misgivings. We’re blinded by

weather. Glass under tongues takes

temperatures when people have colds.

We’ve an air of sick and beneath,

my man, you’ve budded breasts.

Black cat behind master, I put on

my underwear after my shoes—

trolloping my way back to the truth.

Ice came to claim the city and two

things were eradicated thereafter:

We’re in love. So be happy.

I stand like this. My sleeping pieces

peeled from night. I learned this fix fixed

me when you happened upon my manner—

still whipped and arranging a scene.