a turtled neck for the times   i have been afraid     to stick one out for them  /   minding my own business the occasional pardon when i have not

I saw a seraph sitting outside the coffee shop / drinking a latte with a double shot / eyes like busted headlights, / wings of baby's breath and barbed wire. / He was Facetiming his lover / telling him about the blood between his thighs / and picking at the mothballs on his sweater.

It’s the pollution of a freezing temple basement air by voices in intonation with their caste and the odor of garam masala. It’s the Dental Hygienist placing the gurgling rod suctioning my saliva into my mouth when my jaw is too busy running through the same prayer before shloka practice. It’s being a single cell in tissue of bruised skin..