the only boy that could ever reach me
was the son of a preacher-man and,
i always sleep with my guns when you're gone
i keened at nothing at all, the soundless creep
of the white train overhead, the road that sloughed sleek down the slant
into gold and green of a city soaked in smooth vermouth smoke
and flame
it's so quiet when all that keeps the time is
mechanics tining inside a bold and clock-cold heart
***
1 comment:
I called it.
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