Friday, April 15, 2016
What do you need when
the quick moon dashes
between trees? The bottle
still rattles and there are
smokes to smoke.
This is the low life, the shelter
is thin, and there is more
blood than red.
Why do you linger with the last
lines of songs still fat on your
tongue, you know I ain’t
going nowhere.
If you don’t pull the trigger
it won’t end. The crosshairs
or the cross we all kneel
for something. We all stray.
Wash the mud off your feet.
.
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