Eyes.
They slip and sidle. Drift.
Idle.
Like hungry engines. Slitted and lowered
against the sun, langorously inspecting
bellies, fingernails, and
eyes.
Wandering
across a desert of young skin, stretched
tight before them, like a dry
tongue which will never
crush into speech or drink again -
a drum of want,
sounding its pink, tan, cream beats,
sounding its white, bronze, brown beats,
a heart like a hive
with all its honey dripped outside,
among the flickering hands,
and the pitched screams
of little angels on waterwings,
among dropped and lost dolls,
with their heads of glistening hair.
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