Month
The blades
press tight
burn bright
silence swarms of bees
girl
Don't they run?
scared across
the field
begging
beckoning
to be heard
large and small
time and again
there is
no end
in sight
but the cool
comfort
of a warm hand
in the dead
of winter
stop the light
Car
1/2 a mile
fingers four
take
down
the grisly path
dumb doors
how cool
shake
the drink
slowly pour
pull away
and drink
Collapse
Dream
with an open
heart
twins
baked below
often run
the strange cloud
with desire
rotten
covered
corpse
Sound
Cover with plastic
buckle down
the failed words
of the common man
guide
Demand repent
suffer sin
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