II. Primitive Streak
Here, her head & backbone
develop: on pavement, chain-
link-everything, whistles, &
finite ticks of the second hand
between arithmetic & square
pizza; where letters form sharp,
piercing tools; knuckles bleed
& the lips that speak dirty spic,
bloat in purple hues; someone
added play to this ground,
idyllic & perhaps a bit ignorant;
the absence resonates in the
throats roaring in scene; yes,
she find herself seen—burning
match among the dormant
book, face both darker &
ablaze; the squint of his eyes;
more words; she in swell; then
her boot between his legs; fists
& fists to cheek bones & more
fists; the circle engulfs her;
somewhere in the blur, in
distance, a bell rings.
