THE ART OF LETTING IT ALL HANG OUT

she’s a soft puzzle of bulging
pieces, the layers of a blue-
collar parfait. She spells delite
d-e-l-i-t-e and you better damn
well spell it the same way.

anyone allowed to grab a hand-
ful has passed through the picnic
of transubstantiated hot sausage
when it’s time to pass go
she’ll be the one saying so.

the lord is my lite and the simple
knot is my faith. Me, I’m interested
in the dark shadow between breast
and chest. I think I slept there once.