there’s a song I have the rhythm for, but no words.
blank spaces two to four syllables long
sit in my space
pungent like winter sweat
dried and unwashed for a week.

lately I have been thinking about blue
glacial galaxy with wounds
from ill timed fireworks.
doesn’t the sky make you thirsty for its scat-tering?
but what can you do with your
too tiny tongue but
dry hump to drought,
and imagine the coolcool drip
on your frozen veins.

no, the rhythm wouldn’t support such
c, r, a, s, s,