love is a speckled beast that makes food of us all

He’s not any kind of man;
he works & bends not too far;

belt of canned oils for dead quiet
bolts—but from the window a voice

calls out sides, they line up each
believing fully in where he stands,

pines as idle, not swaying, still
they are capable of great heights

and also great depths of nothing—
only the ass of this worry

soaks through walls and into paint
and lie / staining

the real feel of sinking without arms.