zafusy

an apron
from the top drawer

radio–
it’s her hour,

his hair is feathered
his wrists are thin,

he swings from all the poles, the fences,
an inverted sail
on the narrow way to work,

can I get beans with that?

he sees a shoulder
pimples like
dried fruit in milk,

breasts
folded away
from these palms of charred toast.

Adam Steventon