My voice my house frogs' song in the night breathing warm and moist
the price of shipping it ain't me, I ain't no fortunate one, we shall
all shape art with our hands and place in the main street gallery for both the boys holding bullets in their hands and Allison and her kith fallen all on the cold hard ground.
By the big bridge she makes words to paint the body of war crying out for violence. Of heart.
My high school literature teacher writes to me.
Drying off a cat full of rain on a Saturday in April.