I tool the human out of fulfillment
and the Luftwaffe soothe shoals along
her shoulders white or gray with
the world—Ball-peen spinning some shine

out of gall, asleep in the asterisk forest, filed
teeth on Tiny Jesus cool to coal songs
white or gray hot—Every muscle’s alignment
dusky with cloud-fucking—I drink that milk

You’re one of the good ones, mother-fucker,
eating cake out of a paper bag. I sit in an
English garden waiting for the sun.