I often ride a book like a bicycle
There are no girls around here
Even you could have numerous goats
Certain places of me are actually fires

That ghost town of childhood is flowers
The moon? One solid gravestone

Yesterday happened to most of us
A cloud of statements comprises a siren
Calling fervently from the dead space of never
The sweetest promises make bitter blades

How you talk to twelve thousand dead is this:
Whisper into the sky when your heart tears open.