for Leslie Feinberg

in the span of two mountains, in the space between
trains, we move in quick,
bite the hands that cut us, kick back

our finger on the heart of the beet
The sink’s short memory Washed The blues
of it, red juices, stained steel,

both two or more things true and the same:
The left middle finger bandaged in peach
A stolen motorcycle on a joyride in dreams

Bite the hand that cut us, unabashed as an engine,
We slice a righteous attitude, undervalued, undiagnosed