Ezra Moore

big ben

knowing it’s not
safe i grew my hair back
out to get here
not knowing how
to take a train
alone with military time
and until now not knowing
that fog is water whether or not
the train is on time
 
i think he’s tap dancing
a seagull luring worms
who wiggled their ways home
home being no particular
field of grass any blade
along the pavement leading
me from a home
glasses fogged upon entering
no particular building
a language used to speak
of one’s own body
 
or fog maybe
as a kind of pointillism as holy
static melting everything now
landscapes and roommates my body
blurring into shit unintelligible
because my roommates don’t like my body
my longer hair or brand new skirt
now i’m sorry i must have left
my dick on the bus i know
it’s not the same
 
again i’m growing up
in the shower after church
pulling out baby teeth dangling
grey by the roots
and praying for bigger tits
 
///
 
i rode to salisbury cathedral and
they won’t let me take
a photo of the magna carta
the flash dulls the ink and dries
up the page but it rains
every day and the glass box
would make it useless
the flash given back
and captured in the lens
a peace treaty to my friends
i left back home
 
four years pass after
the church and the showers
i’m praying still
for breast cancer
the only reasonable crisis
that might flatten my chest
the ends and the means and making sure
i see heaven
 
///
 
a seagull with one leg
how to be so charming?
grace rests on a street sign reading
dyke road everything is ancient
roman baths renovated cathedrals
mossy roofs, the pub cat
and her tiny son with the face
and all the grace of an old man
 
somehow home
shaving
what is now
a little more than peach fuzz
it’s caught by porcelain
collecting
velvet ground off and a needle
dripping with the ends of communion
white wine suspended in oil
calling a surgeon
to show him my tits
tell him be god
give me the body
of christ cut
all of it off