Brother, the cord to this world is a frayed rope and it beats our poor bodies like drum skins and I’m running the city water now in a sink safe from harm, and across the surface of most states there’s a phone ringing and a somebody’s lost something, a somebody’s lost a somebody, and a somebody’s come home, and I’m unmoved in the kitchen pulling wings out of my teeth, praying for loads more wishes and a body out there waiting for this somebody in the kitchen waiting to be done stung.
