OF HUMAN TORSOS

It was Saturday, cicadas

like expiring / mechanisms hidden

in the leaves

I was thinking about literalness

feeling literal and cloudlike

simultaneously and what imbecile

says a cloud isn’t literal?

I was thinking about human torsos, those lighting

cigarettes and those huge

female torsos coming / in from the sea

If you drew a diagonal from my hipbone to my penis

and bisected it, you would find there a scar

doing nothing, like a thick iron

worm the size of one of my fingers, dead

I have really long fingers

But I was happy to see my neighbors, Caribbean, walking

to church, happy to

drink coffee in my underwear

and stare out the window, a tiny

spider on the screen

rotating like it was connected

to a joystick