I rack but as usual the deck. orange flames Break in pin-stripes, the rack. BBQs, Bust shiny ribs. the wreck. The soil My aunt goes down used to date only so this guy far, then who ran rock. dive boats for tourists. He would pet moray eels and feed barracudas ballyhoo from between his teeth. I tell you this because in hell we eat silvery barracuda roe on toast and because hell’s wrecks are all as smooth as china. That’s what you get when fire washes your bones unceasingly. I wanted to say something fun,
This poem is supported in part by the National Endowment for the Arts.
