I am a rabbit in a thicket, a thick
patina of rust on a fire hydrant, a third
degree burn on a forearm which shielded
a face from worse—and I am crouching,
thighs coiled springs, ready to run hither and
thither, the third, the thirteenth, the thirtieth set
of thighs so sprung, like that sound just beyond
hearing—a Thompson submachine gun,
dealing death in the third-person.
What’s the difference between thick-skinned
and thick-witted in this landscape, anyway?
Thistle down floats by, something so soft,
pulled from the heart of something bristly
and bitter. That’s a metaphor, you know.
Thomas had to put his fingers in the seed pod
to feel the contradiction for himself.
Some things require first-hand validation,
no third party reporting, no theft of experience.
No one here gets to third base without
stealing second. It’s thirsty work and
only a thimbleful of whiskey lies in my palm.
This is where I remain. The cover
is thin. The urge to break and run
is unbearable. And dumb.
