Lungful of Iron

Mud bricked veins blossom through the same
old feelings that I have always been here
with this voice and a patchwork of photos
from when I was a little blond kid
It all makes sense how we treat each other
and we marionette the radiant nervous postures
of self calming animals, sycophants and kings
Bowstring tidal waves hum in every throat
peaking at the eyes, but we never disturb
the heritage overlays and polite mess of
streets that run between our hearts
Somewhere under the streetlights, a lonely dog howls.