6/13/18 10:43PM
the tar is endless
when the dinner is gone
none of the burbs
with their twisted words
can undo what’s been done
there are fossils under here
and floating beneath the cracks
are the skins of birds
and the ghost of david byrne
just eating away at tongues
I see this lake a crumpled mess
with fluorescent whisps
and a dead end of curbs
but it’s better out here
where the wind is queer
and always eats its tums
that’s not where I lie
with spines or lungs
and long dead thumbs
keep recording my verve
why’s the camera so glum?
a filtered life
without her strife
will end up on stacks of none