black and blue bovine
near the last steep of a transit maple
tolls you in the back for a bar,
pulls in
until your blood's as his,
his as yours.
stock your hands with green bassets
and everyone sees
her music says for horses in the back loss of love,
but I learned to drink in the navy,
and shoes with names crushed as easy
want pepsi cola
ten minute migraines for babies.
how do you get your hands so clean?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem