I can learn to hate this shell easy / already
don’t do much right by my body
in oil & salt / call it a wound: my throat
& how it is open always, any gift
passes, no porcelain gag, talk empty
of rhythm / shambler I’m called
to knees again & again asking for drink
or drunkard to peel me: unlatch / hatch only
if I am split can the song come
wild & hot, tender me / thin as a reed,
kissed between two thumbs—
what eats the light for growing?
what cuts the lipped wind to song?
