and call it life or lumber.
ears hear sawdust
and hands are too hard to handle.
this slice of me
listening to Dylan
on the north west side of nothing,
rain or shine, thinking about her and years.
spin me into old fashion
liquid blood,
as careful runners,
jammed with knives at paralyzed time.
my black eyes
see the tremble and the mumble and the organ fight,
as your nicks skip into mine
with a prior hand.
this is the longest existence,
dirty sins and red air,
with a fire hand,
kiss the owlet good morrow.