Mills produce dust 
that is fine. 
It covers but
is lightly salted 
after-

Long shifts and
a taste for 
tale and elbow
on pulpit remembered
is a horrible mix.

I like to think 
an angel is mass produced
for occasions of order;
tube socks and a hum
of indifference 
just doesn't cut it.

If I lay still,
I hear crickets in
play-
and I hope fences
can stop a charge
in me;
steel and I do smell,
but it's more...

it's me not caring.
I did. I do. 
but the crickets!

Stronger. 
Sound and I taste
it
again. 

Air is god sometimes
when it comes true.
And it did;
I may be here but it's
the other girl.
I breathe.

We had long hair and
it was a way to say
I'm pretty;
combs take forever,
but guess what?
god said it's okay!

One must admit 
certain existences 
are weighty and, touched?
the full burden,
its trap and love

ends up dust.