growing out a horizon groin.
growing from the selfish joys of a quiet, ill-reputed boy. groans
roam and skip like when in rome.
roaming between what we build and what grows on its own.
and i can't pinpoint who's the pinner.
the bowler. the bower. you fucking coward. standing behind the
front. spine timely unspinely. i watch you watch your watch as i
ramble on 'bout when i was in front. maybe i just want to want