promiscuity snacking

And how we howl

—our voices snagging on bricks

ricocheting into open avenues—

renders us hoarse in the stables

a sliver of moon later

(the moon shaved like coconut

and curling into a wanton gaze).

 

Because nonsense. Just

nonsense is all I write, hear,

all my nametags say,

 

before stowing away with

triblend tees in the wash

reappearing as sticky residue

catching in the grooves

of my fingers as I hunger

 

for pretzels

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