The receipt makes it, if you will, a slip, three spiders, knives or what all
a triumvirate of terror, the promise of three stinging touches, or whatever it is
or whatever it is planning on being.  A bike ride at one in the morning?
that blood in the tub: well, it's either mine or yours
because only ours is tinted blue like that. Where did it come from?
And did you notice it sometimes drips and smiles?
That's syrup. That's the noise that slaughtered cows make.
The tired heave in the animal.
The blood-drenched fox and its ivory teeth.
Gnashed the tendrils of a depleted soul
before exiting from the back door onto the wooden porch.  Maybe,
this won't hurt. Maybe, this isn't as bad as it once seemed.
Maybe "I am the luckiest person to exit the house today."
Or maybe you're the luckiest person to leave my life, who can say?
The answer is at the end of this column.
The answer is written in invisible ink, is written in stones, is written.
Writing, the answer exits the house, away from the porch, away from
retrieval, like us, like sent mail, like so much. The answer continues down I-80