only the meadowlark stands in, a hypothesis for the fact we sinned
The slaughterhouse is halfway between the lake and the city, is there when the night falls, when this art hobby doesn’t cut it anymore.
if there is a country of black hills how can I crack open my sternum to show the engine inside
I do not succeed until I read my glowing palm.
The mash-up joint where Q-Tip
and his mixer slide rhymes
The secret of time is its tenderness, as the secret of another person’s body is its resemblance
to one’s own.
I am/ In the bathwater, nobody’s epiphany,/ No wrinkled psalm.
without the fear of being pushed you stand on the slate painted yellow/screaming around the corner the train turns into a magnet and you a spoon/
the button of his choosing fitted with infinitesimal mouths poised to call back curtains of chrysalis and wing