Wednesday, March 30

Inert

I am in earth as you find me
, in earnest, with soil & broken
glass from harmless fun last night

I am inert drinking last summer’s
rosé from the fridge echoing
old cheese, patient champagne

but stick with me ,drink—we will
not have to die slowly like those
forgotten grapes in france (

those poor bastards) Inert as
burned wood from last year’s
campfire & put yr thighs on mine

it’s better; yes? Inside it’s easy
to be born a little bruised
night after who’s-there night

Personally I prefer warming
up the bed for a girl who
lightswitchflicking undresses

before me ,pretending to be
a fireworks display between
four walls But here I am inert.

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