a sink full of cutlery

fill the lungs
              with fever
           or with fire
the clouds are never really sure.
But I will choke down
one or six or ten
and promise I'll quit
by the time
snow's been.

And I'll
         day       dream
of skipping town
by  
       roadway
or train car...

but those means can always be caught,
hook, line, and sinker;
I'm sinking
         on       the      rocks.

Another round
to dull the bruise;
yellow means it's healing.
but yield's always uncouth.
it's rude and raw
like the teeth that pelted
                        skin.
gnawing, clawing, but never digging in.

This foxhole's been firebombed.
It's no good
             to       me.
I fell apart and burnt alive
and you...  are not comforting.

So bury your regrets right under your spring bulbs
'Cause in a couple weeks
they'll all
           rise up
and be admired as beautiful.