Detail

There’s a small tickat the corner of your mouthwhere it plummets into sadnessmuscles dropped beneath the skinstretching each and every yearto a sculpture wrought with slackness.Here the lines are sharp engrainedlike paper mache puppetstelling us just where you’ve beenand how the weather lashed you.Shadows writhe on city streetsbut you hold the smell of mountainssky so blue you filched the tintleaving us staring into darknessThere’s a small tear in your sidewe’re not talking blood of Christ:after the Ave Mariasno holy water can assuage your thirstand the two robbers on either sidesimply take up space.Perfumed oilsheat of desert suncacophany of tombsrevisiting my lost extension.