birds evening song
boys weed in the garden
making way for more weeds to grow and insist
cicadas sound
make love, make love
here I am, waiting out whatever
metal skewers don’t require a soaking
and I love your
face
smooth smooth smooth
a moment of several stages
the first one
hurts hurts strange
and a means of communication
I wave my hands
sidelong and erect
standing to the left of the finished masterpiece
tearing apart
and not taking it
anymore
we’re not taking it anymore
– Hoc Scripsi
the platitudes of willful resemblance 