by Steven J. Serafiani

cane the night goes. A
syrup towards the end of its
blown sand; to
know what awakes to:
palpitation pity
thump thump

but, hey, simple the night
goes with lime wedge and
feelers feelin. two flashes of
flavorless soda and a big
neon drudge demoiselles. grainy
at best 19th century sucker
soul stoic

I’m not nearly a man; wobble
towards the big redeem reveal
this being with grace. night
goes like this;

splash of sour mix in the
fearful of all even if
it’s so goddamn brainy