Burning screens
Our fisting hands
Our drive to steer
When the ship comes in (you) the goat is dead
97 back hands
32 flats (brisks) of sheet metal
3 logs to the battering ram
Stressing me blind
18 straightjackets and you can barely fit me into all of them
(It's our fear)
Not faucet, nor blood, nor drain, nor victim
Just the indifference, not circumstantial
Nor a full load of lead
Not shedding nor peeler
Not wire nor switch
Dissension adjusting recollection to our powered fears
97, 32, 3 blind
Where are we now
That the goat is dead
20 cans of mustard gas
An empty backyard
Kids are gone
The thinking tree with chrome leaves