Shutter speed.

I can only think of violent poems;

slicing things open and inside-out

the heat gets to you

and nothing feels real anymore

especially not the eyes.

Especially not your thoughts

faint as Jesus dancing across water

crust, top soil, epidermis; I can’t be serious

the heat makes you all confuzzled

so you can’t remember what it was like

to have something to say.


Indian Style

Our bathrooms are wet
low ceilinged and flat,
buckets, slabs
open shelves along the walls
peopled with razors and bottles
and old soaps encrusted with dried foam
maybe one small mirror
not like yours, skyscraper-showerstalls
glass and glamour
bone-dry towel floors
a place where the spreading, splashing, original body is
under white lights and big mirrors
and shame.