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knowing bettermartyred almost-hero of the too-clean west has never been good enough & must therefore run away --knowing better
i am jackal-boned & lying in wait for something less weak, burning up in the praries with a rifle imprinting its make into the milky shards of my hip, singing protest songs to dragonflies with a gaze trained to keep tabs on string-quartet dreams.
he writes, "but the winds were fantastic, that day!" and the grass grows taller only through the knotholes in my bones.
i put flattened pennies in my pockets, touch fingertips to undone bicycle chains, and kiss gently the t
by ~otterhare
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