into floors; hinges we keep in
us, hook-up doors; I want no
asbestos: I want your ass more.
There’s scum under us, mixed
into rugs; clouds ground down
into skies, along with lyres; it’s
topsy-turvy what gets erected in
the world. I want your hair curled.
What I want is something wrung
out of me, only partially with my
will; that’s the soot, scum. Up the
bum of heaven is where I belong—
you hold the portal open, strong.