Hinge Spray-Painted Purple

The director did it.
Hog tongues lap at—novelty don’t impede—
The handmade dew.
There are trees around the trailer
Better than the earth they’re in.
Go on,
Jiggle that claim. I throw some salt hard
Upon the heart unto a line the door left
Open made.
Impenetrable losses, sinewy naming; a needle
Issues puncture’s lesson: once
It’s in it’s fine.
Heel and let the colt’s knee
Buckle. Let the fire at the nickel on the dash.


What is it wishes say the air is
But shapelessnesses cut out of

Form, unmet, rewetted, left from
The love of touch’s tackier must

The figurations of love’s mustiness
The tack of must’s loved figuration

The huffing snout
The lust of having

Keeping open permutations until sore
Of it, the sure, the tinted limn caresses

Nesting like an urge for only
Warmth or only cushion not

The tourniquet on birth
As legacy of snakes begetting mouths

For tails, for balance
For the mouse’s seat

The for’s the force that has a thing
If I can turn it about within a hand

Then I can get it
Out of me again

Out of grip
Or sense’s trembling tip on it, it having curled and been kept wet,

The having never had
No consequence in it.