Butterscotch

I combed the singed fields
for the dank tang of still water
teeth bared hissing air a warm knife
lowered into butterscotch pudding
there is a thin line between glory
and humiliation there's something
I can do with a book
so I can breathe better
or work on other ideas
the smell of honeysuckle and diesel
for instance is one way
to make a living by napping
or picking up on the vibes
or rays of people and explaining
that to the people on the subway
like what it means to be dreaming of that
hoping my jacket doesn't blow away
with everything drooping from the humidity
the air has turned to jelly
and I am spreading it between us
in an effort to bond with you enthusiastically.