clock ticks suck blood. i form daily contrast in the hallways 

by splitting skittle colors. a childhood car game: kids standing

on the corner counting reds, blues. red space, blue space. i

split beach warmth and the backrooms for an ounce of

difference. without death, pretty release means nothing. still i

wish i lived in a quilt, square doll smile and elementary

school blush. granny smith apple palette. i fraternize with

cold digits and lust for uncooked ambitions. cold brings 

something, i grumble, nose bones crushed on an ice desk.

in the peaks a muzzled grizzly lumbers from a lazy,

groundhog day cave.