the crap part

of my soaring

you say


and pin

your wings

to the truck bed




whatever magnet is

proper, moving, magic

or major




the sound

like a strum -

moving strings,


one makes

a cut

above the song

and rests there




i mean, i used to

drag the deck to see

how many splinters

i could catch -


understanding weather stain

the beneath we huddle

just together in

when storms

range about here




what the cut calls for

depends on its depth

what the blood names

is how we forget

to seep through

pain or other elements one can call emotions

by their names and still

not know what they mean




i watch the underside

of the clouds

as they engine

and shake - maybe

because of you




each saturday the noises

get our names wrong

but we temper

our expressions

to show other feelings

and mute

the buttons growing

along our armature




once the charge is ready

they will come to mark our holes




the narrative

a form of snake

wheel shaped

and beggarly


we skin




we hope

for it to come

round again,

grin it against

our betterment - take

the face down,

tame it, skull-


and toothed - to open

our mouths

ways and





one rolls the road out

before like a carpet

red dust

in the dim light

gone velvet dumb

and yearning