Funeral Diner My Fist Smells Like Graveyard
claim your place as victim in the perverse knowledge of
something to fall back on with hands held so loosely as i
pour the water through so many times i tried not to
wonder
conflicts avoided words mumbled under breath truth buried
out behind a face the advantage taken with no thought to
rectify when the well is dry they will reattach
themselves
and again the face smiles but not to mine
