I forget it’s not summer and
my sigh is heard on the moon and
reflects on the crowd of spectacular
spirits once upon a who I loved long
and ago and will wait only so long
before buzzing back to better or
beyond though I never had much or
succeeded with stories that seemed so smooth
for other faces but what I mean
is the sun gets sick of all this rot
so here take this half-quarry and build
without instruction or sleep or slap
up the usual hiding hut with clean
paper and fresh pins for lines post-collapse
Tag: stories
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To Cross the Sea
Bubbling on the stove warm nonsense on TV I misspell the important words of other people’s stories on the line nothing drying my legs sore the floor somewhat spotless what else to binge nothing stops this war
should have had iced coffee but trees start to stumble the hot earth becomes I tell myself breathe look at the leaves completely still August 30
at the end of the day whisky cicada hit send a cool breeze down that road in any direction you end up laughing
other animals 