What can you really hear
your blood, yourself?
what’s near – what’s far, I guess
Grey haired women fill the seats
and I can see myself
If I look down
This could all be said
in less
Taking away to anywhere other –
the balmy night the radio
the impound lot
We passed through providence
got drunk, my face too red in
the pizza light
I thank the flashes, yellow sponge paint walls
in a building that might hold
nothing
else.
No comments:
Post a Comment