Brown Grey Sweater

this doesnt mean the,
minus apostrophe,
cutting it fine
with the clock on,
the first to disappear,
and the sentence ends in song.

a fitting entry to my return,
rifles require ammo,
just as poems require words
and the noise before the door,
we are quiet as a lover's doubt
and I got it.

in the form itching,
I appreciate your last poem
even though I hate it,
because I read as I go,
not as I stay.

let this live
let us live,
like bones and blood
before the trials of dirt,
blue bird good friends
gone again.

strike me with amends
so clear that it kills me there
where this stupid stanza
finds your arrows
sullen with wings
that are just things like love.

do you know what I am saying?
who cares of hell,
period per perfection
in my lunch layers in winter.