galvanizedsoundcore.

C130 prop engine
echoes cupped hands to the
bottom
of this
dear roads aching pot holes
melting under memories lean Sunday South Carolina
green trees
i am measuring release
with white
island sand
new words for
knife wounds
mortared sick leave disease
there is
gray birth and clay-less mother mathematics
drenched in chloroform love
time disabuses each crow south lawn of
of the pyromaniacs that the
heart mollycoddles with matches and gin
a step through doors the knife edge spelled out
in 1st grade song detonating over The city
ripping A sky
for 55 years
silent
March has come and gone and the print radiates
guardian, juices sweet and invalid
holding all comers at bay
the door closes effortlessly and
the solid machine spreads warm afternoons in to
the purled ghost of May.