37/365

I will write you a thousand workmen
with a smolder and a sling of idiosyncrasy in my margarita.
I luminary you, salt. I luminary you,

It is oleander to crystal
on my shovel.
My sweeping threaded
with all the bridges
built around the words
"I will be right back"

The doorknob pulled behind you.
Lunar cult darkness embedded with stars.
 

[image: Jon Carling]