What with the locusts and the twirling spray,
It hasn't been the best of days. Old blood
Pumps through the holes and sewers of the town.
Oh, that is what I'm smelling, people say,
But what they mean is, Holy shit. I'm leaving
The final days behind and going now.
Those purple hazes may not be the best,
However sonorous, for telling time,
Of which we have unlimited supplies,
Not each of us, of course, or one by one,
Just lots of foggy, vulgar chunks of loss.
And locust shells, lying around like bones.
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