338

A rotten luck
a salt lick
struck my chest
cave down the center
to my swept lungs

A prom for the unemployed
christ would have been a smoker
juvenile delinquency
my modern age
replaces some buried rage

fleeting lights
said okay to my prayers, bedside
so tell it in a letter
“You’re okay.”
a confession for bent ears

chasing fear down blue
all right, tangled us up
misadventure disadvantage manipulation
what thorns did he bind to us
did, are we sticking together?
your iron grove