Sunday on the school grounds
Wiping off the lead crowns
Beds set up in oyster shells
Weren’t we meant to breathe in
Sheriff’s silver casings
That fall out of the sky

And I say
Little red lies on your teeth,
your teeth,
Grinning at church bells
Atop your Van Gogh
window sill

Screams pinned on jackets and
conspiracies sprayed on knees
Black diamonds on the rocks,
the rocks,
This whisper ain’t got any
real privacy

Cutting your hands on dreams
Losing your last memory
Of white rabbits, door habits
Writhing like a royal trapped in
Big cash ins
Flayed for the prize to see

But it’s all
A
Feel
of your
Masterpiece

So meet me, meet me
My sidewalk’s got salt line
Fish in a hunting ring
Leaf in an arctic breeze
I’ve got time I’ve got time
I’ve got cigarettes and lime
Come put this fire out
And take a shot to you