Hollereyed the moon tries on gas station, soda
machine, locked toilet, linedried bedsheets, a caterpillar
fording yard dirt.
machine, locked toilet, linedried bedsheets, a caterpillar
fording yard dirt.
A naked buckeye in torn bandage. In one
glass juice, whiskey in another. Photons fall. The radio
talks back. She is crying now, her head thrust, one
hand on her forehead, the bare syllables collecting like
water over her breasts.
He is gone.
(A couplet makes a stab in the dark.)
(The just enough-ness impulse that would keep her breathing.)
The black silhouette of a cat rearranges itself on a road that loses
itself in landscape.
(Why not why.) (Tell the truth or I’ll jump.)
Lord Liberty thinks it is so easy: to say someone loved you. Pawned
himself, limb after. Pulled his spent pronoun through.
Light, at his back.
