Oh how I love all the rings,

what beautiful shapes

their vespertine shadows

relate by the fire

and I heard that dusty voice

bellow with pre-determined choice

but I tried my best not to bother

for the man and his sister

the wife and her mister

the bird and the blister

ing sky–that swallows our dreams

from the place that eats east

of hampshire

and the nametag filled with a blood sharpie’s

industrial filth

the name etched

pouring

s

l

o

w

l

y

I see the silhouette of “desire”