from Angel Sex

David Brennan

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Sore at the knees, dulcet
Rain-spelled afternoon

Delinquent in its misery,
Fuzzy line between film

And the theorist’s projectability
Easy to know, how

I open my mouth to your doubt,
You gloze for me still, only

Melody where the itch is,
The perfect music solemnly

Is broken, may we hear it again,
You sneeze in the kitchen

I give no blessing,
Esprit is for us a difference,

Perfection amputates the limbs
No matter how loudly we clamor

For magic in our lives
Happiness is left a torso