To Adam Bresson
With slip-on shoes, hairy legs, tattoo,
I listen as your friend with the name
Reads over loud, delivers his own punk
Eats crow, fucking good crow, and then,
Tangled in his consciousness, won’t sit down.
The gospel spoken (or spat out),
The hat goes round –
I, paper thin, arid, extra dry,
Peel off the page, cut myself
Away from your friend what’s his name.