Research: Journals
The Journal
Past Issues
28.2
Christopher Davis
In the OpenAt Lover’s Leap, I wiggle, stoned, alone,
thy mutton offering, out from my bug.
I turn and burn, sniffing bad fruit, myself.
Melt my old, spicy sweat down to a groan,
invisible, invincible, against
this windshield. So where’s thy face? Sir, bite
off my tight coins, this golden screen, but please
don’t sneer on the shrunk sun I stare into
and rub. Nor need I see thee frown. Pity
me not. Just look me in the open eye.
