Found Fist and Foot

by | Apr 7, 2020 | Issue Fourteen, Poetry

Take the hand

in Basquiat’s Profit I,

each finger

has two joints—

so shall we chill

at yours or mine?

That’s a Mafia trick,

lopping a digit.

This is memory,

an accident

waiting to happen

again and again.

Dude blows off finger

with fireworks

and you watch it

on You Tube,

but let’s not reaffirm

those circuits.

Every accidental hand

is an urban legend,

consider too the clouds,

their white tracery,

chancy if it rains—

I’m trying to copy

a fog like a cat

and paw it off on you.

Pin It on Pinterest