poem || Keith Higginbotham

Red

falling
sun fuck

the glass telephone black b/w
rifle; in, sleep—

*

jests perch on
wind pews or

blood of words

nipples stained: 

*

the bar beating
light table 

branches the calliope

behind shoulders of chairs

*

river of beds the popcorn wind

flicker of naked twigs

spotlight teenage ledges the

ground is gone