I’m obsessed with transition.
the form it takes
in movement and

thrown against a wall;
stalled in its pounce,
sudden landing
without intent.
and after all that patience
and miles of crouch
through the city,
to be suddenly seized
by your habits again:
your need for slow chase.
your salivation.
your wide open stance,
arms spread,
lips like decanter:
it is with love that i do this.

tips a holy red,
i begin to let my nails
trail the arms of strange
wool pea coats.

II.