Enough beautiful attempts at failure
to fill ice cream pails piled into the chest
freezer. The marked dates question either our
palates or our piracy, and I, twisting my wage
into a burlap sack, turn my stomach over the top
line. A hungry lean-to asks, “Why can’t he
look elsewhere?” A selfish condominium
asks, “Where are the rawest meats?” A
graceful bunker hesitates before canning
fluorescence. Either a public space is hearty
or it is public. Wood in the form of a wormhole.
Either a palmed card is theft or it is development.
I found it too obvious when the sun carved out
the sprawl. I remember that my grandparents
lived where the phones were on a party line.