Southern State.

In the dry spot where East Tolly splits in two

the narrow middle-class

lace their fingers and tap their knees,

while the rabbits sing.

Cloistered and prattled,

dimpled and thick-

they wobble in the humidity,

and caddy past the pond.

(I used to dream my brother drowned

in a hot air balloon.)

Now I drink the dank air

and drag my lust through the dirt.

I bleed,

but bandage the mirror.