Freak Variations

Dominick Knowles

    when we drowned
    the poem
    in silt and spit,
    it turned
    the color of burnt

sounded like a pan
olive oil sighs
in suicide leaps.

    we said something
    toothless, like:
    “the world makes milk
    from the stones
    it slaughters”
    and thought it an alibi.

by afternoon, we were
furious as gnats sitting
cross-legged on a bookshelf,
noosed between
spasm and salute

    a couple of tantric bozos
    with nothing in our bellies
    but a nylon whinge,
    freak variations
    on a busted guitar.