The Punctures We Swallow
Gary J. Shipley

Inside was a queasy descent,
Voices chipping at the face I was given.

There were intervals of vodka.
Perhaps they were holes to sleep in.

We bruise because it sounds like us
And so goes the sludge of together.

You're a posture of occupation.
Some sideshow of injections this.

At the acquittal I'll postpone my hairline
And find my nutrients in pain relief.

Most of this suffering is optimistic
And I can't even feel the stuff that isn't.

I know when the time comes the soil won't fit.