Have I not had my fill of you, dream babies?
In the morning / the mind looks out onto a street / blurry with self.
so you hummed / and they hummed back
I had imagined grief to be the trilobite
The wick is lit / like a gun.
like / the ones / who / walked / before
If I cannot tell you everything does that make what’s left myth?
Some of us are graves of our own occasion and carry that / to the end
It reminds how first life is not enough, then too much.
John Wayne is watching / from his lacquered saw blade on the wall