Whispered at night, a rapidly tumbling neon triangle stuck between decibles.
Thunder drums in fields, the fairy statues on my mother's nightstand.
And in the palmy middle, quicksand.
Knot at my neck; laughs are pulled from me like petals. Have I loved you, Have I not?
[Walking through town at night] is like starring in a silent film. Every passerby pantomim ing for coin, for dope, for a grimy existence adjacent to the rest of the country.
(Aged pinup scotch taped to a red chest of rusted drawers.
Dead lady, though she remembers model T's and powder blue bathtubs.)
I have been crying more everyday, draining evergreen and salt-serum.
Knew it from the future, being hard to watch it go.
Slowly my body rots from under me, but for now its still keeping time, still sees shadows of the people I claim to know.
