hilt trip
under the streaked shine of a wet wipe moon
a night smeared blue with brand new lipstick
fell on our bodies like a fresh flophouse sheet
wind must have been screaming through the
barn doors we came to, but when we made it
the only noises we heard were shoes flying up
in the loft we worked to support each other
with our bony bodies as a rabble of townies
washed the black sky in the firewater river
dazzle of $1000 worth of hip pyrotechnics
we were planning on wronging each other up
there right after the festivities got underway
instead we sat there watching other peoples’
joys until one of us said that love is a game of
mistakes, & people score reckless rolls in the
hay, oblivious to the odds of a sharp pitchfork
finding its way through their wandering hearts
KJ likes to make poems a lot.
