: here is the oil drum of my failure,
the slick, the seep.
Here, I have come to lay it down.
A harvest would be good only for asphalt
and anyway, this is a place for walking;
I will take my 80 steps alone.

Here is where I come to lay it down.
Here, lay it down:
the kitchen furniture from your childhood,
your horse’s bit,
all your lumber and sinew.

We only partially erode – the metal will corrugate itself, the wood splinter,
the diagnosis yellow
and curl.

Of veneration in a wasteland,

something will be left to lick and kiss.

“Spring held out her arms / and two were salty” was published in the 2014 edition of The Labletter.

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