Jake Bailey
A ball bearing. White
socks. Oil stink.
You think. You think
you're fine. A brook
bubbling without the red.
Instead, think fire. Expire.
Expire. The expiration
is in intention. I'm intending
to fail. And flail. Then jail.
No card for the in need
of saving. The grazing.
They stare. I wait. It's late
for an end. Then. I turn
into a ghost. Pass through
traffic like rust on steel.
I'm real. It's real. But then.
Maybe it's not. Maybe I'm not.
It's a lot to think this way.
Just say, "This is the way
things are." Just char and cart
and stitch. Maybe this time,
the woods will spare a fish.