she nodded off et ceteras on acrylic with wrist 90 degrees to arm
pushes finger down & with each finger names
counting the burn marks the stars in part are
guiltless
What sky imitates oil in search of gray
What marred water another tomorrow turns
Where do the songs in the ground from pipes emerge
Who bar coded the face of the moon, the breeze, the odor of decomposition as mastodon conductors quarter songs
pull in the cardinal directions, as an urge would
meet me in dilemma,
who’s renting Port-O-Potties to innocent bystanders?
Does lack of guilt mean paying for it?
saxophones grease the axle of each revolution
scientists say 1000 miles an hour is slow for a rock in space
but it doesn’t leave much time for an autograph, nor an imprint
the earthquakes are not at fault though the dead finger them
if I get my hands on a clock
I’ll choke
find more than surrender in pockets
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