By Edwin Torres
Pixie-dust infusion
shoots steady shock through incline—
is that crooked
or slyster meat tong, grabbing hold of night
so as not to pulse so bright past outcome
Pardon the excess—it’s a point to make
that out of all this dirt
comes glass or shiny sheen
meant to gloss
over rough spots—let’s moan and breathe
At one time, so that anything shattered
will sound pretty
I need to show how I love—sound and vision
if I sing and move to what I hear
and feel, just for you
Well, let’s see if we can match
our limbs to the credible—or maybe the possible
let’s play again, so that
you know what you’re in for,
when you save your last dance for glass
How clutterdust of me—
and here’s where I lose
my head over a star system,
a horny section
ten thousand years older than me