poem

i had a flask in my pocket, whisky, some change
laying on my back, drive-way
the clouds where your head tops
broken in there.
the pigeon shark, the peregrine.
you were made for this city,

snow goddess, spit on your season rite,
focusing on the birth of things,
of more yous only... stranger. i
sound like a sad man i guess
but my back is grounded
with fire belly full of answers