the lake is cold
sheepshead and pickerel
and i could care less

these jagged knots running
my spine like loft steps
soft sooted bending
with a wear
your heavy trod
i bear beneath you
in the infinitismal
patchwork this old wretch
of a place is

your chain of the weak bike
you garrulously weave
leaks
the rapid lover raining
excursions was an oiler
in his previous existance
extending his ooze to you
and yet you squeak hardly
a sigh

like the rain falling on the
tin overhang
a brush jazz beat coming
in from the heat
dark like the patch on the
battered woodwork
like the beam of shine
behind my bus glassy
stare
the broadstrokes of your
enbthusiasm streaming
beneath the helmet
peach pale legs driving
sprocket pedal

and all i manage is a
grimace shuffling a
leg on a scuffed
oxford atop the winter
fan motor at the back
lean my head back
waiting for the growl
of the Allison to lose
you on the hill

bandwidth blue
the traffic hurtles
carrying my case
you braced me
two steps at
the landing
a bumblebee hummed
in and turned and left
and the dark exclamatory
dare of your severe
intent never flickered

i stank sleeping on the
rug the television throwing
this mongrelhue upon me
like a damp sheen

what i mistook for trash
you placed atop the
sediment of my life
tilting the head and jaunting
forward the strong chin
"its custard..its fresh....eat it
you look hungry"

down in flats and out the
loose hinged electric entrance
door

down the street in its blaze
of naked summer sun
the shards steaming
in the glens of forest utility
the curdled piles of refuse
and broken bits
like soft clouds at the
corner the pale
lights cycling like a fit

and my heart beats fast
the appetite whet
like an old bent faucet
droplets like ideals
shimmering in the
winds

wake up moaning
like a child
an unsure old man

the plastic smells
of perfume
the dark dream
stirring
beyond the sheet
of night
smells like rain