St. Lapin

Is this how we are supposed to feel?

As alone as we as barbwire

as Castrato sing song? Long hears.

Long looking for a mirror in a white

wall. Days. Just sun and rolling

over into nowhere. Could there be

enough glue in April to stick together

us in a hole from bb wounds?

And the coyotes yelp. Can we hide?

The squealed gunk congeals to form a choir.

An egg sinks when your fever rises again.