The crows wave you over, invite you
to smoke next time blood crusts their legs
and they throw themselves on hilts.
The long child tucks his elbows into his hips
sucking his nails off and rubbing his lips to water.
Coating passion until he occurs himself.
You have nested into self, gridding friends
into tuft and wet. The crusted weeds do
crack and the ground nearly matte.
You retch over the sink handles.
The windows dyed black as the crows
chant Help. Let’s wake up.
Part of home is eating yourself and smiling at nobody.