Set
the yard on fire. All around
your windows, blaze. The
legislation stays.
Play.
I've
sustained—on my two
shoulders—cuts, somehow.
They'll mend themselves.
Now
with
this new album, "Arm's Way,"
I'm not sure. I missed your
dinner party. Like a boor.
Sore
from
sitting still so long. The
rapturous traffic aloft,
redrawn. Heaved roughly
upon
divan.
In the back of van
with soda stains and can-
dy. Pops stuck in the carpet's
pile.
Why,
I'll clean it roughly. I,
Brick. I'll lick the wound
like tongues of forrest
creatures.
Who
prominently feature them-
selves in nature. A
sink hole that's opened up
somewhere.
Where
oil ruffage and slurry take
up a well-known gleam. An
idle summer dream of
Sheen.
