Matthew Burgess: Inner Meats

The way this sunrise pools thickly
onto brick tenements like mnemonic
honey: the cheek-chafed boy walks
back under the thundering bridge.
Can’t you state it straight? Afraid not.
But to angle further maybe this lasso
will wrangle a ruddier maneater or
a redder meteor or a nerdier reader
with meatier torso? Someone to press
between thumb and index: “inner meats”
says Billy Ray Church. The wavy line
in the key is for river and that blue
always reminds me of you, he forever
nearing, never or just not yet. Hello, he.

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