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To the Quicksand of Socket and Release

Alec Hershman

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The tongue got wet with leisure,
broke with use. There was a long God,
a long haul of beads for which my finger brought
the needle with the patience of the thread—
cerise and singular—bright
dissonance of cash.
                            O shuttering,
the desert shadow, pre-O, the tongue
has habits, had praise:
                               famous poets, like doves,
nestled into larger doves. And claimed money
was gauche. For each, the lips’ firm intervention
was difficult to synchronize. I felt the chill of fools.
And cooed. But followed: the red of my own thoughts.
Like loyalty, my shoulders rose to touch.