Poetry Month, 3 Days
Not necessarily, we swim in
for a heist, a shipment of nude delivery trucks
on that barge, a resting stop. We will paint them
the color of fruits to be eaten
only after their decay. Weight of
our clothes, the trucks their height. The measuring
can be the pressure so we
count out our cousins. "What did you get
Of workers rushing their work
allows for failure. Wouldn't be here
otherwise, a brief usurping.
Give me a bite of that medlar.
We covered ourselves, kept trying to send
our language barrier back. And back.
Who supplied it
collected it in a bag for troubles,
a suitcase for setting out,
a cup of superfluous rainwater
wrapped in thirty-four sons there.
A double unsure.