big tennis matchbook
ripping the ears of corn out of the farmer's handgrenade
i put it down in purple ink
my hands are cold like ice fish
up all night
watching the snow
i've been lookin in the resin
for miracles
rubbing my gums
for miracles
following the basketweaver's cues
losing all sense of thyme
tripping on the luggage of a trombone player's assistant
and drinking lime
No comments:
Post a Comment