Standing still, and swoosh, like
everything rearranged; how in hell’s name, so damn gorgeous, a number of
automobiles at the Promenade. Squash it—the feeling in hesitation, to walk with
a palm filled with bees. They at it, a million on aces, dice on cages;
somewhere Jesus, so far lost Yahweh, the last scam was detrimental. Unlikely
his fate, as getting it right, so much trickling rain; a mouth full of sulfur,
a pill those nights, laughing and it hurts; gut confusion, spread apart, like
asunder those waves. Squash it, before feelings erupt, to need something
fretting its goodness; a small measure, a large feat, the case was shot to milk
and honey, the Promise; a drink for her, a nightmare for us, to love something
one can’t keep—the close scholarship, the teacher in Clarks, a man forgets most
are human. Climbing up on pegs, traveling alleys the dirt he did, the life he
shook.
