by David L. Paxton
Grab and hold. Cicadas sing at your silver feet flat over cut grass and shuffled rock. There’s pride in those pores. Be perfectly sure when the ledgers are marked the proper pugilist is always announced, carrying night in the eyes, legitimizing certain travels. Fingers tire, but never refuse a task; they lift clothes from the floor, open doors, flip off a single Caucasian, place alcohol to the lips. In the forest of creative need, no knees bare scrapes, but the palms are beat to hell.