The Strange Unstrange (Or: Escaping the Habit) (Or: Mires of Memory) (Or: To America)

Hold.

Your voice betrays you -
each crack lulls tongue
and issues arrows
rustling clambering
toward sheen of cloth
behind glass.

I thought I slipped this,
melted numbers letters
subtle exclamation points
as waste on foreign roadsides
sweet stench of compost.

Turns out
I just

left.

I, farcical judge,
call my stoop to court -
the unswept swaggers around ankles.

What have you to offer me?
The itch of avidity,
raw red meat
and juice seeping down thighs
until low moan?

You don’t know me at all.