Is this how we are supposed to feel?
As alone as we as barbwire
as Castrato sing song? Long hears.
Long looking for a mirror in a white
wall. Days. Just sun and rolling
over into nowhere. Could there be
enough glue in April to stick together
us in a hole from bb wounds?
And the coyotes yelp. Can we hide?
The squealed gunk congeals to form a choir.
An egg sinks when your fever rises again.