by harps mclean
shovelfuls of chapped daylight burn the dirt to the ground the sun sets somewhere like work on a gallow raging & rattling scraping the bed of the horizon
i've been under this bramble of a tarp on a pile of dead skeet waiting all day for the sun to go down
the farmer's almanac says it should be dark maybe i've been made clouds can't be trusted rolled over on their back like cats
i buried enough ammo to arcade all night but i knock the first star like spackle
it crumbles and falls to your window sill like mocking bird bones
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