nothing called us over then until
the roots were so old. under fingers
you were speckled or speckling
like me on your fingerskin. real
love shines inside of cloth coin rolls
and real love is almost white under
the nut skin covering the arriving
church beetles and real love is barely
causing the knots in the roots until
it rashes itself out, breathing like the radio
does this far out and cracking its lips
against the numbered glow or the bumps
in the sweaty cake of your arm.
the existence of fire is a sad sound
to us our ears are love love love.
the sound of love pulls itself like fire
through the drooling hay and carves
pictures of love into the dribbling branches
of your fingerskin. everything is
nothing is new and we and the roots
are green and hurt to green and sour.
you sit down somewhere good and
find my insides, which are soup-snakes.

__

where are there not roots in my t-shirts? what part of the world do they not whine out of? but i don’t know how to squeeze the ones inside of me always. i have a hard time seeing unshattered. russ hears through my soiled and pulls me out solid. collaboration is a different way of forcing the world to marry layers, which the poem already does more often than not. collaboration is a conversation that i want to shake inside of more often than not. you take turns, you get tangled up, you push at the same time, you break the animal in half and wear its body hair. there were all these roots in these poems we made we were trying to get them out trying to find each other inside the root-tunnels. carrie knows all these lightweight secrets that are weird and soggy i am just trying to get my arms around them without them breaking apart. [soup snakes] are every where