6 shots in to a wasted Thursday and dialing the sun
in a parking lot testing gravity's wake and wash like
yarn tacked to an airfoil passing through field lines and
watching clouds gut check behind high tension feed lines
unable to determine if the ground is rising or the sky
is fallen and I realize the shine of scales dropped from
fish whales beached on water piles aren't and
cars are all around and empty in the afternoon
bath of unseasonable winter fires and I'm peeling
layers in the face of an energy warning on my wires
sweating cold from neck to toe and spun in the current of
name calling and my phone's ringer from someone's pocket and
who the hell keeps saying my name when I know
I am for yards of concrete and metal alone and turning
for the path shorted and shorting eyes lie and look
homeward and ahead, dead before me on the post of
a saw toothed fence begging for fat palm's slip
to unzip the pouch and spill the loam and mix it
with wet and pit readied road washed snow,
there stands crippled and tribbing to its own
legs fore and aft a horse clinging to preserve what
in blinks exists and bit lip I squint nearer and hold
finger tips to skin of news print mache clung in spit and
the buck tears free into air too knotted for January.
The watch on my wrist ticks and I try no to stare
too hard where the light bends and the fingers at canvas's back
leave their intestine gripping high displacement
multitude and oft forsaken tracks, and I can't
think of the last time I laid my head to feather stuffed bed
and simply slept.
