don’t pale for
grief,
late
stages
companion
weighting each
second,
melting down our wax
museum
shadow play
lacquered in rust
moon-
stranger staggers into
swamp gut
saloon
and cocks his lips
at a dancing
broom,
feathers too frayed to
salvage such
room.
ballerina frets
her best
come the end may
amount to
less
than a puddle of dribble
in last call
spittoon-
a hope-wrenching notion
however untrue.
kindled by bonfire of
keepsakes,
a toothless kid still lingers,
likes his candy
by the nickel by
the shovel
sucker sticks in
pockets
stuck
together,
in back row of splash
paint bus,
mostly friendly
girl’s face
that pretty shade
of dirty-
shrugs like age won’t
waste us.
lurker best not
watch
for fear he’d
drool
to
be watched too..
reckless,
worm man wriggles
in and thru
lens
selfish to be caught
with you-
not that he’ll
confess.
so why don’t
i read..
likely it’s paper
allergy-
perhaps the sockets
of my soul
are glutted with
weeds,
a mind shaped seed
between my
teeth,
the perfect
book
was
make belief.
too bashful to
touch
you like pillow
talk
me down
from
any lie that wants
me caught.
a dream like playlist
liquifies
between poles of
desert mind
shooed back to grade
school photo
day-
always that one hair
out of place.
how lacking sleep
left linens
musty
foldless moldy
sheets
may not have chafed
my cheek
had they been
aired to
dry
and not bleached
in heat.
stiff back turned
to day,
nursing thrift store
injuries
midst molar
decay
rooted in held breath
histories
share little left
to say,
chased back into
the wild
where grizzly bears
bleed grey.
blind to shimmer
of tears
binding terror to fingers
upon sheath
of shiv too quick
to thrust.
hands in the garden 
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