Jesse Glass

Leaping now. Feral. PoetFace, aw-
fully empty in your arc of bone;
hands steady the loutish head
with digits fused to the jaw--

gusting: dropped in
acceptance speech:
How d'ye know?
Optic? Haptic?
Mumble, but god made these

gifted
Kick-out legs. Kick out to
either side, punk. Leaps over less-capable
incarnations: variations of insect muzzles
torn from torspes
& abandoned in the smog.

Generative parts split open,
generously splayed for our
inspection, shows it male
& female. It takes to the air
as a frieze inscribed on crystal,
a Doric column kissed by

phantom bomb. Lessons
warm the lip
ready to unleash
attitude from twin hooks
when cordially mulct.

Poet with your phallic
crown. Fetal putti join hands
to lift one gutted form
in your honor. Staring back
with iron-work eyes they applaud

your steady journey from Nin to Nan,
your arrival among the blind.