This far

I killed the fly with the New Yorker on April 30th

24 preludes to warm up my arthritic fingers

Set ablaze by lust for life, hot iron

Turtle without a shell, 

A full harvest, tornadoes, and disease

Protect the suckling youth 

The best time you have in a world of regrets

Coughing the most when the birds are the loudest

Close your eyes and be there now, shades of indigo 

Folded spine

Praying in a closed garage 

I got us this far and can get us to the end

But I can’t promise it won’t be more of the same

We’re talking about pulling things out of the air 

Coconut milk, maple syrup, and lime juice