Often in the lonesome section
I barbeque the mirror. Your laughter
an elixir. Where sometimes means
X and never means Y. There
we cross hairs in our new direction.
Eating the bones of dreams, we
both have grown fatter but now
is notorious and the speaker’s patter
makes no sense although I discern
a pattern of adaption. Currently
half past to die for.
Waiting for the number one train.
Gluing light to swollen words.
Gluing words to pages of quicksand.