thejunkyardprocession
Iii Your daughter lifts me up and drops me in a glass. I fizz,
Shrapnel There is one pound in change in a shoe in my room;
and bobble to the bottom, bub-
orange and silver pieces
bles,
in the scuffed leather.
brown on white. If I could have
I tip the heel upwards,
my way,
and it pours like chinkling pop into her hand.
I would not simply dissolve after you have left me for bed;
'come on,' she says, 'we'll buy a bottle.
I would sprout flowers, a bouquet
Cloudy lemonade.'
before I go. But too late. I‘ve disappeared.
Worn In