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Body English
You lean way left and paddle
your strong hands
and your body english sucks
the hanging lightbulbs and
airplane-toilet-fluid-blue cubed
chalk way left and the spirits
behind the bar in bottles
pitch. The cues in their neck
racks like students bow
with you and all the fork
tines within a mile.
Outside the front tires
of a parked bus glance
away from the curb
and the magnets
in the eighty eyes
of forty pigeons
skip. Light rain parts
like bristles pressed
against the flat roof
of your head and a dog’s
urine veers from it’s hydrant
and drowns a police
woman. Everyone around
feels something is wrong
in the middle of what they think of
as their pelvic floor.
Many are terrified, most
are working, some are
children. Five people
near me belch and acute
gerrymandering torques
the county. Something
prismatic happens.
On the sidewalk, a jellyfish,
a teacher points at a uvula
and says the word stomach.
Sonya cries. So does Saul.
You make their insides
hurt but the white mook
on the table still touches
all the wrong solids.