grit, 4 tru

this is just to see
that is to say
to see
can i say

whatever, poetry ya know
like, the moon, is a curled up fuzzy
watch for claws, but, no, she's a sweet little
pilgrim

and, the wine is pouring, like the welch's
dropped
at the baby giant when i was six years old
sweet and sticky, in all the hidden corners

the ways i don't believe humming in my ears, mosquito jazz

not easy
not hard
immovable object, waiting

to be scaled