insatiable

the tilt a whirl lands on all those people you used to know
still unsaying anything

the better belong
the trashy winter light in bulbs
bellies
the way my mother asks her grandchildren if they want any jellies

neither stride
neither raveled button holes
neither day, genitive of me and if so,
toy pianos
garish never-ending crushes
the way we get bent when we supply ourselves up close
in the scratched lenses of our first reading glasses,
still a few month’s off

the manhole is a boiler
glossies
a cradle of street reverends
the tumble you took through these same streets six hours back
looking for the sake you’d feature
was it the smoke coming out of his mouth as he surveyed the factory floor
back to the storm water

this is the waiting until the last sight of you
a misspelling of shiny pavements
vessels of what we don’t need