MENU

Reflected in the pond, your father's greased humility, your slouch,
the coarse rash that burns along your torso, up and over again,
roping into your asshole and back out again.
Blood from your chest dried in night's hot eastern wind.
Here, you count your Herbs and your Wyvern Wings, how many boys you kissed
and how many breasts you saw.
'Not enough gold to restore your skin.'
You leave the pond.