A story is falling apart in the dull one’s mouth.
It is sandstone, alluvial, the taste of old machinery,
a toddler falling into either an ocean or his mother.
The last thing anyone wants is one more new spun story.
" The chicken coop started out as a playpen for the children,
but they all died, moved away, became unforgivably literal.
They didn’t plant one garden or invent one new engine."
The likeness that holds the sandstone together is lacing
into me. Accidents are falling apart in my mouth.