There is America in You,
tall, glaring, sweating sick from spring,
Your hate stuffed in our floorboards.
Sunday, we’ll drown in Television,
half-beating sticky eyes.
Batting crimson, bleeding honey
tasting
Baseball,
American,
and Loved.
Yes, feed me, angels! Bare legs, hot whiskey, cold cola sucking slushies,
our sister’s spring sugar
melting ice
down her
Easter dress,
stained from
bloody knees.
Skin syrup-scabbed at
home plate where
night balloons
splatter sky
like
roaches in wet basements.
Where Mustache seeks divorce on the Jumbotron
and AcidLips ignores him
still drinking light
with porcelain teeth
sipping mosquito saints.
Like florescent You, trusting any God you can taste.
Stuck fluttering, frantic in the bathroom light.
I am aiming West,
crashing curtains,
your neon rots.
Still shedding skin,
scraps of you
like gift wrap.
The paper precipice,
Your breathing mouths
sigh shuttering, sleep through Sunday,
through tired life, screeching kettles,
the sixth inning Stillness.
There is America in me,
growing
restless.
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