The sound of a barrel's bottom

scraped, drunk with unresponsive

depths, you can't go back--as much

as go forward.

Here means here.

So why did you weld a gold crown

to this skull, to fence what cannot

be committed to memory?

These ****** rills carrying along

loose change--off with heads, off

with tails!

Free a hangman's odds of appearing

out of thin air...letters trying

words, words trying meanings.

Their poem cleaning up well...

made up to be stared in the face.