white wine with dangling fruits,
chive-French-fries con ranch,
I wear old-and-dirty clothes, eat chips, like I’m young enough to die, but I’ll do it anyways.
Two chairs rock,
like God himself sits and chews tobacco.
Rine and dine, fine wine.
Single women in tight get-ups, how must the sun come up over lumps and forest-fires inside chests, inside—low-key like.
I ain’t no moderate woman, I’ll show you what I’ve got.
Except it’s too cold. A gelid winter morning. It makes one change their ways.
Give me death by a sultry swelter and clammy hands, holes for palms,
and maybe I’ll unearth seraphim.
loosely after Christian Wiman’s style