FAIL
SORTH
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-
crowded
and toothed -
to open
our mouths
ways and
yawning
one rolls the
road out
before like a
carpet
red dust
in the dim light
gone velvet dumb
and yearning
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