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Tarred, tarried July above the finger-point of by-law. Quiet men are quietly roofing in runic arrests. Progress can be stopped with only minor internal damage and a length of rope short enough to miss the point. Everything can and will happen at once. Except the sun’s light, which is not full, but an incomplete weave that covers the most controversial areas of interest.
She says I have the most rape-able voice in the building. Perhaps grasping as a violin bow over a bridge. The lucky hum of plums and peaches. Or a tangle of lingering. Skin and seeds. Week after week, she offers me ripe slices of pear on a blue glass plate. Crystalline sound, twang or dirge, there is such sin in it. Voice of kneel and cunt, of hunt and loot. Between songs, I give her two pair of my dangly earrings. They no longer fit me.
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