This Stir of Ours
Summer storm
I open to drink
from your tiny neck
the settled buzz
wind insects
here and there
is that you after life?
clawing in the mud
and how gross your other face is
cloud scuttle
lit in its belly bone
with fire wood and resin
of jet liner
so much civilization
we have to fence it out.
James Diaz lives in New York. His poetry and fiction can be found in Calliope, Cheap Pop Lit, The Idiom, Black Mirror Magazine, and Pismire.
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