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Untitled // Adam O’Reilly

repeated over muffled hand claps where working weekends strays far from
much left unrepresented
by a mass of dead foxes
spent sleeping in the bed of a
formal gathering
until a leak
in the break of antibiotics leads to a slow cough Sunday
wich wich wich wich
I’m thinking about 3769 different days in one hour
over a stale phone into a mobile home
blanketed in a mothered quilt
during the roguish fauns mostly fighting man fresh from the putty-color rail system
until one two three
over 5
manages a Patriotic Victory over Giotto tyranny
playing baseball in the backyard graveyard
in a place or in a displace
to much spear it in the purse suit of happiness
or
is this castration emanating solely from the father
or
playing an animal hide
and seek
during a drop in the great prophet margin