Feeling clean and fresh and solid.
The invincibility of a thickening skull.
And there's moments of sheer lucidity
as clear as cakes of mud.
It's all some sort of endless woven slalom
a hill with spindly curves
and dangers and bright orange tape.
And wouldn't it be so easy to sleep
for exactly seventy-four years into ever
in the muddy ditch of your neighbor's tomato plants.
Over-ripened and hastily dripping cleary reddening blood
sweet and wet on the creases digging slowly on your eyes.
Clean and fresh and solid.
Gutter runners more faithful than tomato vines.
Author notes
no. no notes, thanks.f
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