from The Sonneteer

Quickly I press a narrative into service to substitute for the leaky center Now in the Mid-Atlantic southern flavors the itch you cannot scratch Or girlhood a thing I’ve parlayed for cash a kind of uneven barter that justifies my existence Even past hoping for hope or wanting for want implosion the next order of business Where lust is altogether unbecoming take cover from hunger I imagine a “you” to meet the “me” that keeps flapping its gums Under and over, and in between passing static across time zones