Concussion, or A Nip of Star

Concussion, or A Nip of Star Fizz

And too, the truth is

it’s not temperate as tea

leaves in the green

Ceylon fields or it's not as salt

water taffy rain if you’re luck

is to float above

it all and look down

and see close

to the pinch of children

who reach leaf leaf

leaf who roll each

into tight green

pearls without one

tear no it’s not neat

as this or the warm legs

of whiskey whose

squiddy skin is slick

on the glass truth is

the champion

in the corner who

doesn’t touch the ropes

who dips just so

at the knee lithe

and sweet beneath

the bleachers

and the swing

he sways away from every-

thing like tea leaves

in a breeze like

whiskey in

the pout of her red

as red lip listen:

truth is neat, it's a honey

bee come up loaded

and going going

to her hexagon gone

warm wax thrum

and dying right

dying in her sisters' buzz

above the tea

above the barley

deep deep in the brain

of the boxer

at the tip of never

come back from

neuron buzz