a gross prediction of articulation.
in all actuality, i can walk far distances without water.
without the wind at my back,
tossing off in the bathroom at work was a way to figure things out.
desperate in despair
the ruts of pine cones, sharp on my skin, cut my hand.
blood trickles down into pools drying in afternoon sun.,
bamboo blowing,
charlie never had a chance against that woman.
she sold it all for perfectly shaped hair.
i need the touch as much as you do.
as if this bottomless pit can contain anything but my tolerance for the nostalgia of the past.
