passing your home two times a day this week.
each time i hand crash over to the road and fate,
look for you out tending the irises,
like waiting for the radio to rhyme C with D,
but it goes B.
bad slant rhymes
slant like razors,
bad brake pads
Bad Thought #- – – –
The car is murder.
I’m riding Diomedes’s horses.
Hope my dad is sorry he didn’t believe the clacking in their teeth
When I tried to make him listen.
bitter that i’ve eaten this thought
two or three times a day.
anyways you weren’t outside.