We Fight

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

Triskedekephobia

Abdicated responsibilities
of man in that crash. What case of
everything, smooshed into glass with
blood, get out in anger (maybe he's drunk?)
Three cars, one of which is a cab who'd
been nudged up into intersection, just
working on a Friday night, even if
triskedekephobia on the wife's part, but
seat's absent. Sparks, splinters of broken
tree, such a loss in the city even.
Two black busses not involved but as
evidence, disburser of cell phones, though
the cops know that corner.

The white skin, and casual nonchalance
of too small hat that filled the whole train
car. Does he know? Has he readied a
response the same as I? Cars can come
from anywhere, and hits me. No witness.