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pissing and moaning
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Bad poetry a howl is an empty bucket.
Both our brains are still just broken pieces
of that stained glass in your grandfather's garage
that, now, will never be made into any sort of image
except colors diverging around black metal
smelling for a way forward
without a hiss
or howl. We've howled
poorly for two years at every bright object in our lives
the car and the bank account howl with us
pooling our strength around a variety of framework
the buildings and the public spaces
the bathrooms that we were left to linger in alone
the bathrooms we were hurried out of
like mice. We've howled with the strength of mice
at all the shiny outlines that have walked through our two tiny eyes
, glass banging in our head
to linger with me in a blank room
unearthed, as we have been rudely for years
by minutia and divergent colors
that need too much air to live sufficiently brightly
and the alcohol massaging our gums
moving brightly, one assumes, touching the unearthed shapes
into fuzzy lights
