I crawl through the belly
of syllables, 
of image.
You ride at a gallop,
hand on hat to keep
your head on,
tongue trilling like some naked
lark.
You spit out those images,
smile on your skeleton face.
I hear your bones clanking,
me laughing in the shower
of spittle.

Every word shakes the clock ticking
behind the curtain of 
my ribs.
Every spit-fed syllable
lands
in syncopation
while you and your snapping 
fingers
beat out that poet’s
rhythms,
your laughter the only thing
between me
and all his wounds
bleeding bombast,
beauty
and
fury.