Chévere

In calling this born of a mouth We promise a blossoming of tears

A paradise of wreckages: therefore handcuffed & hidden We are deer-like: split open & down

Lightning flourishes our faces—diamond-lipped & always ruined For example, the body falling inside this body For example, a pail filled with manicured hands

Here then is amplification. Here they come with something in their mouths & thought is limited by the crust that hardens around the lip of bottles

The harmony-throated are joy The rest are knife One minute for tender & glory No more

By night we know it for what is stirring in the dumpster & now it is the long hemlock away The intimate x that doesn’t y I then understand me buried in garden

To this we say needle above & eye to eye In contrast to buried-in-this-hole-for-a-very-long-time

This, it is told, came with a whole lot of high fives And the more & the faster, the more real, the hotter Which means that here, anything is possible

By touching, a thing becomes our someday-electricity-head By eternity we understand the man pointing, the woman collecting water That pours from a slit-open cactus with an overturned crab-shell

& in this anything-is-possible world we only exist when whirling to go We draw it all with our dirty tongues, the stumps of our missing hands