1.15.15

shes the journal i will never keep.
ours is no regularity. i grow sour earth.
moss out at the seams. she is like a
sweet gum devours it. even her breath
is spokes.
women are explicitly emotional, she said
it with sloth hand leaves.
i admire the spiny cylindrical pods
of them gum trees, monkey balls, we called 'em,
i almost dropped the keys to my bone trunk
climbing her fleshy one to reach the seeds,
                                                  /    them

     \     self portraits.