Saturdays nurse with winetits slow approaching cars which crack, then bone, fine fine dust and gravel converging below a bursting erectile moon. I think I grow restless when the Spring comes; come walk with me, lay right down; come clenched to me, foaming as my shoes come untied, the knots rushing past are such and exactly as they should be. Someone’s pitbull wants my throat. It’s still cool enough for this jacket, to lace the overgrown lawns with music, in the air ripe porous or gummed with spore; that poor medicine. When I come to these fields, obtuse with sulphur, the nurse with the wine pours herself a chair. In those clouds scratched above the moon.