Hansa Bergwall bombards us with a slew of sensual images in this tight, mysterious little jewel of a poem.
—
Jungle Taxi
I don’t have to be
the sane man. Seventy-six
varieties of
machete are in
the shop, cowboy. When I grabbed
your hips, your motor-
cycle whipped my eyes
back. Rides only cost a ripe
white cherimoya
You mark time by ash
in the river. It must be
that we’ll get there soon
***
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