interbirthbooks
handbound volumes of poetry, prose, and prints
Out of step with garbled utterance
mistaking charging for Georgian
I hear the sound of marching Georgian feet
& the summer’s here & the time is right
for fighting in the street
for fighting in the street
for all the bucolic bullshit—to wit
the fields lay sick beneath my tread.
that wasted evening
serenading douchebags
on the peaks of Appian hills
& longshoreman like Phoenician sailors
working the wharves
& a dog hind leg up
licking its balls in the sunlight
rigging worn—fiddles need tuning.