one Bible
and a bar of soap to cleanse;
last time i checked, the light was half lit in the hall
and i was being told that metaphors
were all i knew.
you said i thought too much,
cared too much and that a can of rootbeer
shouldn't get me through the night.
i should photograph the storm,
watch its wings as highways sink and fail
to drive me home again.
.
.
i took the pill,
slamming feet against the break.
it was the eighth of june, and i've never seen the land
again.
i'd hit wisconsin on a whim,
and left when the life guard was too drunk to save
and i had stayed away from water
for too long.
i'd eaten, not waited thirty minutes.
by the time i hit the sheets that night,
sirens were going off again.
i left for illinois;
polaroids in hand and flame,
lighters helping change
the past.
Gold trophy winner
Adding your comment:
thanks, mud.
