oh, the scene was macabre,
two to the floor of the van
when we, reentering the state, passed a
bridge whose architects were gods that left it,
they left its rusted frame in the hands,
the failing hands of sinners.
and I rested my eyes for
the first time in weeks
while you lay there wondering
would you ever sleep again?
oh, and we spelled out disaster,
cute, like a broken accent.
and drunk? I'm nothing of the sort, I just
can't, can't seem to speak in tongues at the
moment I'm the figure of all my travels,
a weary traveling suitcase.
always the same nightmare.
will we ever pause just
to allow this love to
come remove its coat?

INVIA LE CORREZIONI