A Final Note On The Weight of Breath by Andy Buck

napping... one eye (the Left) to the public's people naked and the Other sliced by shadow breathing inches into the upper arm:  of Me, hidden this is me dopey eyed for a buffet of strangers (or "By") but all at the same time darting through this intricate subway system which is made by electricity (the Right) I can hear them but they don't exist on Sundays eating socks all cotton, all cottony all laughing at themselves but they can hear me hello see my sock smile I turns heads when I turn my head throwing the Other into this big and old and big pot simmering the WU YU for flavor "don't stick to these goals" ... (a note to what you have to whisper shaking into your ear when falling into the Sleep)

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