the gem & empty gun

tired and maybe a little beat up but not volcanic
nothing that follows an irritation
looks as red as my red belt
t'night, and the stripping log locking constant
fundament bust
and swallow

if i could rebuild the atmosphere with the help of hands
if i could stop slouching & bridge up my internal gaps
for a straighter, more consistent position on the land

if i could begin to run, and so to rut

i'd rut with you
holding my hands behind my back, myself preventing
movement in the least, my arms wrapped back around
my back,
lob red cords at
a corner that holds the room apart
saying to me
someone once made a decision here, not even that long ago

i'm still begging into airspace
my handwriting not sticking
until i pencil "here on this box"
in an arcane trickle out onto the surface
of a twenty nine foot ledge