I’m getting good
at not wanting.
Suck this prayer
from my tongue.
Pull it out of me.
God, a sieve, this
revolving evolving.
Solve for X. Inter-
section of contempt.
Tempt me. Prairie
dog standing on its
hind legs hissing, my
contemporary. Luck
is a bouncer shoving me
out of the club, arms
akimbo hovering
above me. I’ve had my
chances, ache my
anchor. God bless the sick
sleeve of my hair-shirt.
I’m bad at this. I want.