the bathers finish sprouting lightning from a dime’s worth of discount sound so we return to embellishing the replicas of souvenir carcasses

in time but not space
the world too bright and crawling
the long grass in my nose I long
for the fractured web of lightning a new
apartment in a cheap cheerful town
where stores aren’t closing on
our knuckles the stain of spilled ink where
the sky darkens most is your birth
mark the tiny gem they can’t take from
you the prize in a cereal box cool
breeze in summer yet the fall
from this balcony would surely stop
you can’t think like that at least
that’s what his t-shirt said