Exp

My eyes are always never open for sure
In your white casing far be-dressed
While I think of the squirming way
Our knees hump as I dream
Of my family dying and great white
Mile-wide rivers caulking
Fat snowy cliffs, with nothing
But grandmothers sinking all in it.

To be soft, hit a certain branch
I will hear it shuffle and twine
In the back-magic of my slightness
Shapes of fine pinecone sluice dripping from the handset
Everybody wants to be my mother but
You’re my mantle something standing
Sudden handle in a farm scene
Like in churning art ferocity

It’s coming out
It’s coming out my heart-place

Everybody wants to be my mother but

Our little grapes trill on the vine
Wherefrom shapes hold, recoil
This is bee-stung singing song
This is us smoking