We fight
of David Lynch, whose obtuser?
and that narrative, like a bill in the wash pocket
that's melted (don't they somehow treat the paper
to prevent this?) and we went limp.
So ominous musics that make up the soundtrack that's
constantly playing; too loud. And the dead baby,
whosoever caused it, returns in the dark
carries match-heads in a little satchel
that we can see through. When
daylight savings returns in the spring it's still ten.
Though eleven. That
broken clock still abounds. In a pinch you
come back too and watch this, the timber
of electronic beep stays the sleep from
