Charred Hamburger

Steven


Is this the naked best of you?
The craned arch in the foot, continually
denying gravity―the ghostly webs that stretch
from body to body, only seen in a fountaining
silhouette, rippling from your arms
like the rings of a tree. The only prejudice
is the truth you have written in your senses―
the tugging gut, last night's melody whimpered low―
the way back to clattering your teeth
in dandelion greens, to your hand-claps for the naked
best moon, the way of the unkempt, frilled intimacy―
these veins stretch out like the countless roots
of wild fig trees, clutching firmly in the rutty ground.
But here in the raisin-sun mornings like this one
where you sling your song to the streetlamp and leave it,
and swagger your derelict tongue to the road―
you are merely black hair and smoke.