my luv
falls out of my
pockets loose
change
as metals melt
into limbs
of mine
affections
lay me
down in
sheets loose
as rentals
a man
a plan
a canal mine
asshole
there’s a
story here it’s
waiting on
the kettle
I wonder
where the
birds might
mate in winter
there’s a
saint here walking
down the aisles
in arrows
grateful
none of our
exes went
corporate
a wise
one a mage
or something of
that caliber
there’s a
meaning to
a namesake
of valor
something
golden in
the fields or in
a narrative
like a thread
to a bind
on a body or
the stanza
can’t shake
this feeling of
missing some
fabric
in or out of
reach like
the cupboard too
high
or a phrase
that ends
on the upbeat
not in question
there’s more
to a story
in the process
of writing
no mend to
this grove
where I’m
lying
noah ross//@n04h.docx