the traffic barrel hawk over sees
the suburb fire and fields of marks
--pink chemical flags--
her voice, a trickle of hope,
scratched to match his candor and volume
and his hips move back and forth
with her eyes and her heart and her need
jeffers' hawk on a plastic yellow barrel
looks up at the traffic
--it's four on a thursday--
while he sucks on the cap of his pen
she's desperate for his truth
for his form and for his tongue
to enter her with more caution,
but he's too divine to comply --to her.
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