1060

on a red horse
in the wheat field
by the family estate
abandoned
to the west

they’re grabbing pitchforks

my hands are
fists in my mouth
blocking out a gasp
a long time coming

he falls down across the aisle
pulling out his hair
wondering if time
is enough
for heat or the disappearance
of something to make something
both

you’re pacing in the cold
a cigarette on your lips
sorry to hear the news
that was the news
I was told
you were sorry and I was
the same

born in ‘95
a blister on your lip
a dead poet
and a modem
in your will
only for him

you don’t care how it feels
only how it looks
you don’t care how it feels
only how it looks
you don’t care how it feels
only how it looks
you don’t care how it feels
only how it looks
I only care about it looks
not how it feels
I only care about it looks
not how it feels
I only care about it looks
not how it feels