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oh these dreams,
infantile infanticide
damned if i could
wash these stains
away from a pant leg
whose drip dropped dice
love to play
crash with stains
of elastic thigh masters.
wanton rage
i roll with destruction
and make no sense
in sunny pastures,
but therapeutic
word games
do what they should
while
bronzed weight beavers
are
spun from my head.
she used to read you
tales of the hobbit
he lived in your heater
furnace
and two
you smiled while
wanting
liver train
gender
simple child
do what you do...
David DeSantis
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