black collars pulled upward--a cold

confessional's steady clip.

a pouncy underneath-it-all making

for dark corners.

as observant been-theres liken public

privatude.

unattached to distance, the way of the

walk becomes more cathartic.

wet nostrils raw enough to smell city

lights.

a den waits & will change with what

returns.

no doubt shreds will be made of any

blessing & curse that try to cohabitate.