Underneath this metal skeleton,
I am a Dalmatian.
The sun bleeds shapes across my torso
as I reach for the crescent wrench.
August smells like
the inside of an engine and
the open cuts of
a freshly mowed lawn.
With sunburned shins exposed,
I mimic motions of my father,
whose balding scalp is a graveyard
of undercarriage injuries.
I let the oil drain:
whispering past my ear
it is a steady serpent,
a bowl of black milk.
If I could let the darkness spill out of my ears,
and drink down the amber gloss
of new thoughts
I would.
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