Do the Twist

Stop in composure–not the only thing
crumbling to mud, white apple

sweet as flash-frozen trees
full of mandolin tunes. Winding

hurts her, the tips, no tolerance
for the way she talks about fingers

in the woods, more than the fabrication
allows, filter. When the bark stops

shaking, I’m willing to be the one
to find out: cigarette burns always

perfect irises, without second sight.
Juniper candles, lavender bouquets

for deep shade… Moon’s hide-out,
looking for water but the door handles

keep falling off my car. Don’t trust me,
not yet, I’ve been bending backward

my whole life, spine full-circle,
why should it perform differently now?

After all this time, when it rains
in Florida, worms don’t follow.


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