Tear the corners off your 20 dollar bills
And paste them to
the swimmers shoulders
Save your spilling
Shorthand
and black thread
My side was aching low
We’re idiots
again
Comfort’s made of glass
All along the fault ripe
enough to rain
Mercy waits to let you lie
It’s not far
to lean
Just enough to speed curb
Hit running warm
Too close to ever see
Waiting station reds
Shift
down into clear
Shake the lead off your hands
Sawdust
mouthing
Roman axes way
Tender crazed the storm rolls
down your spine
Comfort’s made a mess
All along the
fault ripe enough to rain…