Sick of sun, you want some shade,
photons glop onto your skin like sting-
ing wasps, sheltering blue sky above
a color like love no one complains
about, so list your lousy little pains,
And not too proud, you thing
To ask, who do you think you are—boy,
suffering less-than-man thing you. Why
hang by one creaking-fingered hand over the pit,
its roastings on your feet, hot cinder in your eye
just go ahead and say it, life is shit,
you know it is, abattoir to arbory.
That’s not even a word! Mr. Poets—
And what did you suppose would fail you? Toes?
Fingers, eyes, tongue? You don’t mean a fig.
What sack of sticks and blood could mean a fig?
Stand still in the sun till your tattered coat fits.
Hard sun that burns, hard wind that blows.
