Love Letter Hawks

Dear let’s see, here are my dear hinds, a black shawl across my back, yanked it with my big sticky toes. Way down there. A dear dog wedged in my craw & slopped on my elbow, ass-up, underlit, but enough to read like a jackal. Here dear. String you up like a buzzy horsefly, count tinkles in the tinfoil. I wheeled out the electric heater for us. And hot tea, buddy. Be dragooning soon, rolling droll to the moon for ice cream cake. No, the ground floor. To binge my pinchy lips on your hair. My body swarthy topcloth lashed at the top, intonating to the neighbors, O dear. Here is R. Blaser… “words return where they never were” A thatch of blue, green, silver thistles, wish I could slur this or move with all my clothes on against the door, sort of waltz in white off balance, seven time two-ra-loo like dad dropping the soft gizzard in broth. Dear paragraphos. We volley hawks by the jesses, send them, scintillating green hills, and clear. You laugh at my trousers, kiss my mick chin, that I am dutiful, too humanly faced. Touching what tinges on your eye, look at you, fiddling with the hinges of a grasshopper, the stuff you love right here, how do you do? My thing is sound you dear, lift out silibant, calling me out distant slipshod like I don’t know, a sparrow someplace. Dear I’m afraid to pay rent, fix my headlights, partake,  I think you know how flimsy plaited flailing I intimate the fields. When I was little, whipping heaps of leaves into shape, covered the a’s, half of the b’s in the dictionary, played baseball with a wiffle while Dad cleaned fish tossing the awful silver heads anywhere I pleased.

Published in Coconut 8

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