Bones being are something too. Barring its teeth, the morning
decimates you and I. Wheels click, establish change, sliding out,
closing down, a future feed slowly wind. Old writing displaying name
menu. Heat time, strain strange etc. all. Schedule whatever you normally
do by a word’s reuse.
Bellowing things boat tomorrow, a lithograph the top of D drags
through waves. Except for pushing it, sticks in the street hold me,
free but bent, becoming the fearful tale’s pointing in a direction
Well, let me, quick, the wall, set up beside this wide spout.
Visitor to parking lot booths, pickle trays, smudge ink, radio, and,
happy too, an afternoon’s encountering.
The boy writes it out, naming words these shoes
decide on today. Fell dogs ruin slide swallow leash throat, dream
of numbers, only sometimes I can’t spell them.
At any time, in the most of places,
heavy on retreat, taking to a second glance, working together.
Another day, we won’t tear out the pages they must’ve filled,
comfortable to birthday truck heavy monks mark not to sit parked:
seizures get inside, pick up names, chocolate guns to being home
without any popcorn.
Hairs cut, postpone meetings diners decide on, you watch, chalk
full of shelves leaving without arms, or the boy’s arm chairs lift.
Slack pages crowd in names the first time I left an old scar alone.
Inside, my notebooks are the messiest things to live out of.