I have retired my bolo
The sun it’s not as deep, now rain-washed
Charged wire bled and fracked
And me sleeping wet
Towel-wrapped without point or poise
Gripping rectangles in fingers lengthened
By how dry - how I see to the end of my nose
Freckling my lips in white, wasting
Red halves and drop
I have desired my work
Taken to bolting, hotter
And weeping with reefs under skins so unexplored
Surely amazed in baked soufflés of guilt and pore
Over green leaf-locked appetites and tasters
Dip dip dip Circular in waist
Happening - present - book.