A chilly morning / traffic rumbles quietly / waiting on the bus

Rattling ribcage / heavy honky tonk back beat / Local 506

Bare tungston shadows / and equine rumination / fill the barn's cold air.

Empty beer can, crushed, / who left you there, all alone, / lying in the street?

The sky is a quilt, / cleanly flayed, batting exposed. / I labor beneath.

Like a metronome / at 200 bpm, / your tail never stops.

Ghostly street-scape shapes / are the pre-show projections / at the Rialto

Purply brightness / punches through our windowpanes / with warmth undiffused.

Skies, heavy and dark, / from above are carpeted / with endless cotton.

Quiet, roaring waves. / Explosions in slow motion. / The Necks at