Somewhere in some kin roots with fifths,nI'll find the hollows there and follownwhere the fit do not go.nA subtle wind always blows me back.nWell water black.nnSpigot spitting nothing but some frustrated air.nI'd put the hollows against tomorrow'snmany sicks and sorrows,nor a sinking ship with cargonand men on deck.nWell water blacknnDid both my grandfather's beg like this?nMad with little fists under thick mustaches,nlighting the only tablecloth with the last book of matches?nThe blues of a proud, poor boy caught on something manic and well to do.nIt's your choice: bird flock stuck in a smokestack panic,nor in little shoes you quit when they start kids pitchingnwith your two palsy palms and all ten digits itching.nNow on the west coast, dressed most like a little league coach,nI'm low key, old keys, but no boys to teachnon no dusty diamond. No breadcrumbs where I went.nOld muscle, slow hustle, oh god must me silent and far awaynfor us to hear, but nothing this way.nnnI'd like to think I'd take dictationnfrom something big and evasiventhat I've yet to see the face of,nbracing. But when I'm awake,nI'm like a little twig breaking under heavy winds weight,nor a moth hole in a sweater.nI know I could do it better, but...