Because you have to face a smooth white,
not this: particulate storm-clouds
dusking across the ache of your body

At least here we’ve made inroads
to a peach, um, peace of sorts
The pores distend forever with an intention
guessed-at but all-in-all not particularly

important. On Sundays I know I’ve failed
the sky because pools of inattention
thicken, and we’re out of cocaine