Well I never smelled much for crashes, and crashes never watched for me.
I was more like a wrinkled bicycle, crumbling for the slow-motion cave-in.
Gathering one’s feathers before marching to the wasp guardian.
This world is bleeding into the next.
This world is bleeding into the next.
Torn truck roils like boiled black-shell oysters.
A grim wreck rending through the unwelcome light
watches me in her snap and her rolling.
But deletory ruin, your curbs are insupportable,
the street is Azrael’s invidious intersection.
Still, I wish that we could fret away on the clap of thunder,
oil the earth we harvest.
If just for tonight and tomorrow.
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