IV
Jared Wahlgren

For those of you who come quickly as darts in black atmosphere, a bittersweet half. I'd like to be forgiven, for these thoughts which racket my insides, a tennis ball of occupancy. This yielding of song: a sip: sorting my business through the shield. No way of bartering the ring. You're a bore, she says, Framed inside of a shadowbox; a reminder of the post-it which sent awry, this trying, the ornament. I reply, so calmly, there is only a hope; a boy-scout knot, noted inside of the automobile: The dark alley I drive down.

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