this is a dance of not getting to the heart

where the line around the orbits point

arma virumque cano, a writhing with jointless

a writing, in graphic noodles that riddle

the old bridge left in the bay will become

a humanoid reef with a misered skin of thoughts

across-the-country pressure seeping, lost

a phantom floorboard wish to sprawl

while two things happening at once

a natural event horizon of comfort zone

the splinters from the work like binding

glue to fluorescent chipboard gassing off

in sculptural submission to the grinning details 

of the playlist now a lot less sodden

with the disco ball, the crying pirates

after all, dancing with such a head like that