Supposedly, One Day in January, Your Birth
Nathan Neely

and here is the worst thing:
Tongues.

they will whisper in the grasses
of behind you.

and you'll find you.

switch
and turn each instance.

i don't know what to tell you of
this means.

or of that omnibus the the moon is.

will too even your clothes breathe on the ground
and i'll lie there.
stupid.

try and fending off whatever it is
the sky may cough at us,
the mouths my breathe you.

but i'll know i can't cut us a-
way
through all the shrapnel
and clickboom of wasted.

lightening cuts
are like paper-strikes.

bedsides,
all the real shipwrecks have passed,
discovery is dead
in a fistful of decades.

-- or --

hold still.
it's but a season.

try and off the decades.

1996 © 2011