friends aren’t easy pickings
nowadays.
neither’s a denim that
hugs the hips like a lover
oughta hold ‘em.

when I waded ‘round 
east seventh,
panning up downtown,
and found a bellied fiend—
the kind which spoke with eve
and made god’s sweet clay 
into we—
i slipped my fingers ‘round its ears
and drew it to my waist.

a silent, silver fang.
a velvet, taupe belly.
a single, soil-hued scale
that stretched the length
of its spine.

i flew my palm along its body
and it purred.

i guided its tail through
each loop
around my hips, and back to its mouth.
and it devoured itself.

i eat my tail, too,
if i’m honest,
though with friends
i trend more
to the dying
than the birth.

friends never come in one size,
and neither do vintage levi’s
(that’s a fib,
they’re always size 36);
so find a friend
that fits you,
and then the jeans’ll 
follow suit.