Runcible Spoon

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Repetitive shuffle rhythm

like eight days of travel

in a truck,

guitar and double bass

and hands pulling us

this way and that way

like a motor with no way of slowing down.


All night long,

in that juke joint in the woods,

no bigger and just as sweaty as a boxcar,

leg to throat,

shoulder to breast,

flailing limbs

until shoes become familiar

with every peanut shell,

ever nail-head on the floor.


In the night's rotting flesh,

we're what's keeping it alive.

Bodies so night,

music so insistent,

any closer, any crazier,

we're each other.