The way a punk
unravels slowly,
then zap—nothing left
save the recovered voice
of a city transient. Or, a dead
man wrapped in stray
dog’s fur. Or,
poems spilling
red over black.
The way a punk
unravels slowly,
then zap—nothing left
save the recovered voice
of a city transient. Or, a dead
man wrapped in stray
dog’s fur. Or,
poems spilling
red over black.
