They're dialing up the grain.
Ash-spent decks
and oil lit garages all.
Do they circle me like tongues
or empty thought bubbles
am I panicking panel to panel
or do I just drift?
I'm the lion of the thrift,
battery pack side-beams.
Figure eights going over
the graveyard.
A diving board glistens
from the circuit of echoes
that subtracted me
here.
No comments:
Post a Comment