Starting to stare
Tilted to one side like a head
It was cousin Ingrid’s last day — her train was leaving at noon.
The nerve plexusResiding in my headIs a little out of sortsThe humps are wastingAmong ruins of rubbleAs my notions are…
Hungry or notwe pass the old heretics lining uppreviously tossed-out argumentsin the sunshinerevealed as breakfast