The thing you hate is hidden in the grass. Is groaning. Wants a boy to rub the urge be urge
to suck it first then swallow. Every inch. Is snake in a box drum, wasp in a jar. Echo, bird
feather, breakable rhythm. The art of distance nearing. You know no other way to feel.
Your father, a mutt, the nightjar asleep. The silence of snow when the sky caved in.
Milan Popovic