Renee Brown Poet Other

Crib In I

I think his iris is timid in sight,
Find him his cig, its light.
Its lit tip is in its crib,
I did right to fight with his timid skin in sight.
Sight this lid, I dig, I did.
His nick is with him in his crib,
I hit his crib with him with light.
It is in rid if its rig, I didn’t dig, I didn’t.
Light is sick.
Whip is sick.
Nick is light.
His is right.
I’m in with his right,
With its light in his crib.
Big, big, big hits is right by light.
Lid, lid, lid,
I’m with this crib.

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