we tend to poke sticks at gravel
flick light switches just to watch the world change
at best
we rub alcohol on our eyes and call it birth
I screamed at you, screaming
your face was on but your voice was off
across from the Ware Hotel I saw a room full of old, wet novels
daring me to live in its landscape
complacent life lines
the air is not yet stale enough
incompleted rail lines
our style is vacancy and we wear it well
