Something inside me smears its greasy
fingers all over the good until
its oil-heavy wings no longer fly.
Where do you put your broken?

                                    That’s what stingers are for.
                                    I bloom and sting. Sting and bloom. 

Is it enough to let yourself be carried?

                                    No greater joy.

But what about this want? This need
to go left when the current goes right?

                                    I have no such need. But I know
                                    it’s the source of unhappiness.

Tell me about community.

                                    To pulsate in concert with a million,
                                    my skin one receptive quiver,
                                    a mantle of nerve net: bliss.

But what about the broken inside?

                                    No inside, no broken.

And how about the soul?

                                    What else would know up from down?