“fire exit”

buzz. shockwave:
your cow’s lick,
your mussed-up, straw house,
wind-crinkled hair,
the dirt mound-ridge in your turned neck
and the blurred photoshop-pen cartilage and sun divots.
do you feel pitted, too?
locked shoulders and cappuccino stomach 
and a birthday clown’s overdrawn finger-pulled lips,
a chuckle with bared teeth,
a dishwasher rumble in the throat,
the sunburn sting of your regard—

this shame is a tinfoil ball with toothpicks 
pressed between our interlaced hands