exists for us,
believe me? Nah, man,
he complains over his God-
given flight attendant contract.
Believe me. Nah. Man
does not have the touch—we break even
given flight attendant contracts.
Though the pilot popping open a can
does not have the touch, we break-even
on the gamble. In the bed we keep sleeping
through the pilot popping open a can.
We bet
on the gamble in the bed. We keep sleeping
pills tucked like cradling a mother’s hand.
We bet
everything, mouthfuls of our
pills tucked like cradling a mother’s hand.
The plane sounds.
Everything mouths of our
travels. Slowly, only we fall out of
the plane. Sounds,
we make sure,
travel slowly. Only we fall out of
grace like a jutted elbow.
We make sure
he complains over his god.
Place, like a jutted elbow,
exists for us.