5/13/18 6:57PM
life south of the canal
is a goddamn paradise
there are birds
all screaming
and i can hear them
the sirens are gone
except from a wistful distance
and there is grass
so much grass
i can laze about the roots
and look up to see nothing
that’s the void i can get behind
blue cracks in the viridian canopy
that never falters, even in the cold
blossoms
blossoms and smoke
and shrubs to be culled
things to be moved
i sweat my own work
and it makes it bearable
the shed is dead
and replaced with other squatters
if there were ever a place
to revive my shambling corpse
it’d be in the fires of elma
where the apples are grown