The insurance of a man with a half bag and stinks with no teeth,
if you look at him, not long.
Here I was, as I could, take out my teeth, faith,
and suck blood by covering my mouth,
and setting a fast straight ahead.
Let me lie in the park, commit crimes, break my feeling for them,
fall on my power.
No cloth would about me, no woman or no man
to watch a man with a spitting tick who talks to himself,
who is standing up and watching me.
And this is when the strongest level of liberty finds me,
across a spitting man, smoking dark at hair and skin,
finds me and the next, another shadow passes.
This one wears a very beautiful sweater and
a bottle of tea and he is in a dream at me, well away with alcohol,
waving an arm at just behind me.
No mans will not see, says
the sauced man, but the single wide
theater of my brain watches that
and what a man waters, trees near by the train
where there’s a tube that leads beneath the tree.
I watch the men who have slipped, who talk now a lot to me.
They are alone, are black from the street and
park sat top sewer grates.
If I would smell them, if I would harm enough to stick
my nose against them, their hair,
the smell would change my writing.