600 meters to fire hydrant, if it doesn’t add up,
speak with governed throat. who owns your eyes?
eyes stare a parking lot
scribbled on the concrete, save the trees.
i guess the cars mean they didn’t.
who owns your hands?
walk this way. have a break, have pure
brandy. learn to walk with bottle feet.
you won’t slip if you just sit the fuck
down. who owns your feet?
boy sitting at the bus stop looks at
me and says. nothing
today the clouds look like they are leaving
back to sea. but then i saw her mouth
she owns my eyes now and all of their