Saturday, April 6, 2019

punctuate

It wasn’t just the odds against, it was the shot that there never was. The all in I’d rain down to the little I ask, there wasn’t any there to be had. The fiction that I am ever in on the fix, they only ask you in to feed the empty. All the big hopes died off early in the anthropocene, all the little ones murdered one by one, the gray of the day through the dark of the imminent dawn. Wishes all these bullets that never grant me peace. A place to keep your creases.


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