I’m reading again. sucking
oh the rib
from circle’s dream and yeah
recovering
from the lives
of others
on a train of adopted nostalgia
death was invented by aliens as a memory game meant to persuade god we’re attractive up close. I sometimes have to choose over scalpel a red crayon. mother over snowfall over bodies of ghostless water.
mother and father
pass
back and forth
a bruise
they call
wristwatch
how long
was I drunk
learning curve
of cocoon
it feels wrong to pray in an ambulance
hear god / all the time
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he knows
it should flower
but he was born
open, what
is he saying, I
can’t call
every bomb
my mother
as one might misplace
the remains
of a non
muscular
child, there is
in the spiritual ache
of a gas station
a form
reshaped
by the work
of its leaving
god
a souvenir
of man’s
absence, brain
a sick
star, my blood
covered
blood
kingsoftrain 