Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Twenty-one Winter 2009 |
Tactile and it's wrong Erik D. Steel It's tactile and I wish you wouldn't know how perfectly unmade I become: it's a hedgehog straining through cheesecloth, it's a birch felled in my hands. I quarter over at the breast. It's tactile and it smells of potatoes, bouncing off this wall of vodka in this brute blue mug, this tortilla, reabsorbed by the wire terrier strung out on your abdomen. A brush bereft of rubber finds the pores. A roughly amputated foot bangs granite. Tac tac tac. It's an indelicate razor slashing hose. It's tactile and it's wrong. |
About Erik D. Steel |