Arsenic Lobster poetry journal
Tactile and it's wrong
Erik D. Steel
It's tactile and I wish you wouldn't
know how perfectly unmade I become:
it's a hedgehog
straining through cheesecloth,
it's a birch felled in my hands.
I quarter over at the breast.
It's tactile and it smells of potatoes,
bouncing off this wall of vodka
in this brute blue mug, this tortilla,
reabsorbed by the wire terrier
strung out on your abdomen.
A brush bereft of rubber finds the pores.
A roughly amputated foot bangs granite.
Tac tac tac.
It's an indelicate razor slashing hose.
It's tactile and it's wrong.
About Erik D. Steel