From last year

i saw her head resting on your shoulder

i looked at you not looking at me or her

you were looking towards the mountains
plotting, planning, dreaming, deciding things

9

There is a spilling of guts on
Aisle nine

I’ll get to it

When I get to it

When I stop believing in
Vanishing

From my unpublished book of poetry, Hooks in my Temples

This was written last year:

Grapes of Wrath 20 degrees really late really early not wishing for good times not hoping for anything, everything for invasions my way out of it red eyes poking through tall grass under the full winter moon contemplating forgetting knowing sleep has to be on the way teetering between vulnerable and tough. threads.