Milk Row

flushed out along the margins as a creep society

out into a swirl of stasis,  as if a cannery stood by the old graveyard

along the street that was a road they trucked milk down in

the times they had rangeways & cattle out across the city streets;

margins of who we aren’t but partly were slung over blue sky days,

as a reminder that every bit of time comes from bleeding:

a lash manages place or location,  like if you broke a stereo or a mirror; so you

creep thru moments on streets named for gone buildings. &

society swhirls around, frittering deep in your/our/his/my nerves.