happy drunken irish day! and in the past the snakes were ridden from a small island and out further from the hipsacks of druids. but several other things had happened.
country shed like a shirt. take my hand
signs and the cold that comes. take my
miles from this year and transfer, there
is no lasting converse/people with their
quiet bodies scrapped, especially at the
workplace. if you intend to lay
claim to thoughts you better
possess another head entirely
formed of instructions for what
to do with them stray and
unkind things--a shaft
of light superimposed
on the window, a whole sky
made of glass and waiting
in accidental lines below. my back
is made of brick and mortar, my
my my my my my my my my
glitch in the recorder. your getting
your used to.
hands in pockets
and kids at war
with the carpet.