shot, exterior

by their scars you shall know them
the versions of you
the parade of automata
tooling over the landscape
on various legs
you cast bitter

aspersions, not worthy
not worthy at all, it’s not
how you were brought up
to look down on
the remnants
of me

there’s wind in the trees
a change coming the
edge of a front
the edge of the massive
sum of your lives
I am afraid

to stay here the beauty
not yours to share
any more than
my rights
being reduced to refusal
and I don’t know the consequence

of staying though I
thrash through the odds
in my oddball way
your vast therapeutic your love my last
chance in the sun