N. Ian McCarthy
Bend down
your tired
sunflower in
this small
space
behind the
bleached
ribs of an
unconsecrated
whale—
at another
intersection
named for a
deciduous
tree,
near
the second-
hand sock
of an Asian
nail salon.
Fold
your nylon
sleeping bag's
triangle flap
a sigh's
width
under the
ritual blade
of your
jaws.
A wet
morning
eye
will
cense
your mouth's
benediction,
even as
the idling
musk from last
night's pole-
cats
reminds
the pink
canopy
of your
gums.
