One Five A.M. More
Above the gray-moor pave and par-decent folk,
across finicky airs, both the natural and the man-made,
and in hardnesses beneath crisp motions,
near dead pansies from a truck-bed drop,
persistent blood and ostensible living.
Most eat tension, pissing better, paychecking as by zip-line,
to fidget up routine's hem before elasticity sets on,
and have the days rude hard, a happening of sensual activity,
and ruddy deep.
If the waist opens to expel its foal, this life is by its own banks
accusatory, obsessive, expulsions and inhalations
in the core like a love.
I know this nature has a fuck to it, a sensibility you can taste,
and I, too, breathe on the grey-moor pave,
as the grit crawls up my thighs and the whumps land down,warmly taking me for senseless