The dry tones bide, they bide. You book out
to nowhere.
-- E-Z, E-Z, Mr Nimh, the words are on yr side,
companions, too, keep grief.
-- I sent a leaf away, spat in my hair
cuz clever. Wif all them in line (some again)
they've sympathy, at least I can breathe.
-- Shiet. 'Ow you figure me, ey. 'Ows you & I?
A pill for that worrying rasp; do & die.
-- Yeh, don't pick up no cents
even in the interim, then. And if I
rolling & smoking & choking, red eyed,
rummaging for that single token?
-- Some bouts just meant for studs. Yr heart ain't lost.
It's alright, I'm a fool for that.
The boy & his hair
looked at each other. His feet in moss
& wiggled light through his tears, his fat.
Yr favorite poet's where?
(Quyen laying on the ground.)
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