when the c#!% come home

(your eyes are sweeter than the taste of summer rot)

    and
       fade, into the lines beside your head,
                  into the walls that have becommmmm you,
     acrid taste against your tongue, and tha - th -
           (right where you want thmhte them)

   dehydrated measure mars your worth,
                                       sister -

     "dinner's on, the cows
          aren't home -"
                lantern left burning, anyway