Saturday

so every highway





is a death row. A built jerrycan blowing your stream high. A pisswink in the fallen sky. Jonah's bulk in the bastard sun. So Jill moves in moves out reproves death and might falling at her feet. This sacrifice's not made in the weather van __ it's not made at all. Nor vain is its trouble nor turpitude. Not so the waking fold and breaking foot. Hold the pedal we're weaning down the death rattle.