dish towel

hymn a raya. him all ya . we drive to the mountains and drop the man out the back rolling the carpet rocks slide frictionless through chicory. in the heat wave i sleep walk to the white slat closet open and the door and crash hatboxes stacked higher than i can can see. but you knew my line of sight was low. slight, eyes like bed sheets soaked in the rain from an open ledger. red lines, green letters. led better backwards. loosing race to mars turns other cheek.