Cigarette Boxes

To outdoor mall windows
And coffee shop novelists
Keeping their recipes in order
There's no room anywhere anymore

One of these days in a secret moment of excessive genius
I'll just burst
Politely

Followed by the quiet of my lips parting to the rhythm of a thought
Debris of words collecting in my jaw and I'll edit this for as long as I’m still breathing.

I have memorized the east coast accent crows have harking
From atop the walking signals thundering to the sound of a band made of
Tin pales
Clay pots
And cigarette boxes

Out of the wounds a tenderness
That throws itself out from the prisoner hue muted
Into explosions
Over highways and dumb restrictions
Parking lots
Housing assignments
Photos with borders
Roofs interfering bulldozed with everything we know
About mornings
And complicated nights

With everything it took for us to read our first book
Our White bones whistle past
A gust of wind
Over our nerves numb
Cheapened by factories
And towering lights
For the memory or comfort of real madness.

We are in this car
With no stereo
Or brakes
Out of our webs made history
Printed in fine print
Crossing over numbers we can't count on
Fingers tapping to a tire tired