zafusy

Prurient, you complain of your itch, and I
with my fine ivory back-scratcher.

At the firing range, he triggered the squalene.
Dead machine once delved. You polish

his plinth till you’re mad. Glycerine braids
your cage, now he’s with his savory

book-stitcher,
attar day rescinded.

Tim Botta

View all poems by Tim Botta