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for boris

bJake Kingsley


"You are part of other people but not"
the lip and iron are stopped blossom tomorrows
still kerosene hands, 
—the tongue against its dumb huddle the clouds feral 

blessed lungs of the riverbanks, shards murmuring
rain is that silver crumpled glass, the longer eternity

  the thaw streets scars monstrosity fill beatific holding now crash
we glass rising our dawn shoplifting gasp she
a hand reverse glistens never gravity amongst
or veneration of saints, degree of sanctity there is no classical or formal recognition (hypothetical moon) fever lips

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