JoAnna Novak

In the dark I stalk love, weak in the punch. Have I fainted, am I dead? Art, anger, tart, angled—I hide from talking, on a plate, holed in the center, sentenced at the table, late to thoughts, naught for Integrity—I have it, and I walk it down the street on a leash, huge, moneyed, of extraordinary bigness, whence I love and sit long, I vermillion guilt my money, my taste, and is it safe with a knife? It is safest, it is right, my cut, my raise, my amber growth of worth, get worse then harvest: a melting in your heart, started and cropped, please please—within a wheated field, what I feel kneeling-—







penance for an inappropriate text