Doctors play your dosage like a card trick
Scrabbled down the
i want to call requests through heating-vents,
and hear them answered
February always finds you folding
Local papers open to the faces
Passed
When the bus shelter windows and napkin-dispensers surprise with distorted
They called here to tell me that your're finally dying,
Measure me in metered lines
And one decisive stare
The time it
So you don't get to be a saint
Martyrs never last
I changed the oils and oiled the squeaks
Patched the holes
My confusion cornered commuters
Are cursing the cold away
As December tries
Held like water in you shaking hands are all the
I have a headache. I have a sore back. I
So the fields are stubble,
the garden is done where the
He looked more like our fathers
Not a goalie, player, athlete
Her body is a difficult sister, and she loves her,
and
Wait until the day says it's closing, and public is
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