this old couch 
a rested place 
of day dreams :
A sanctum for the spittle of birds 
breaking in with the early dawn. 

and each window, in the winter 
a mouth of frost, 
vignettes of cold rolling thru the glass with ease 

i can feel my breath on my teeth
heating and cooling these tines
tuning truths on a good day 
hoping for just
 white lies on all the rest :
mild discomforts, acid-etched cavities 
every winter, each one
taking turns as sacrificial 
anodes . 

Now is my time to be weather'd
buried, earthen 
in unremarkable mounds
(tombstones cracked in misspent youth
mistakes to yield the more restless of our dead 
OR
long forgotten papers 
soaked in a backpacks filled with spilled fruit punch 
OR
the broken keno machines, 
stained by sunstroke and nicotine 
in the old brass bars
timeless in their 
outdatedness.) 

unremarkable 
so rare to notice 
the building blocks of present 
vibration with the tuning forks 
of yesterday 
and yesterday 
back into forever ago 
since before I ordered whiskey 
neat .