Whose Disposition

by Kristi Maxwell

will you deposit yourself in

for fruitful—you carry your cloak like a dead child

no mouth will navigate teeth to harbor.

We’re forced into grave positions the way animals barned

during wind’s high-pitched whine that wins the ground’s kitty

of tree and tree-whittled houses.

How can I reconcile the asylum you treasure in your mouth

for its crazy indictments—that you said that. You disembowel

my vowel-constructed vow. Here kisses what you point to

to imposter here. Thus the appeal of gloves

you pimped off other hands. A boat toward an orgy of waves

outranks anchor, so we are far from the field

green detects and takes. Marked card of a field.

We’ll catch nothing this way.