funerals in singing
the whispers in the science of colors,
and a pasta forest in the air
before me, paper in the stars.
the way the back of my wife is standing
with the town of the electric blackboard.
i want to connect rusting,
the trains of someone who knows her cabin hands,
shards in your lips of my shooting
down. the sun should do.
you are the word of coffee; i am garbles.
you want to catch like a prayer
of a jet should with the day
at work that is all in its soul, each line.
the stars are funerals in singing.
repeating the moon, i was explained
again the colors of smoke. in the blue broken,
the party with the wind is more than it.
no one had a pick of her red throat.
and yet she had a locket
tied in the back of the noose.
B.J. Best and torch-rnn