SUNDAY
Scalding at the bottom of the kettle, a bloom
I decide it’s nothing but
like the sting and the red after this
weekend getaway of sexing, fucking
the beachside’s famous vanishing act
Piss it drunk down the motel sink
SATURDAY
On Saturday morning
they confirmed the worst news
I watched the caterpillars gather, beneath the new cleft lip of the mount
from the safety of a balcony, smoke
Smell already in my hair, my hands half blue
