minutes

an abstract gaze over hills of leather
peat, and goose down that fights the
way through modern dictation, through
warfare of quantity, through abstraction
and ab-machines, tied behind your
purple girls bike leading the mob of
less-than-savory, of stargazers, of
neer-do-wells billowing through for
a slice of whiskey, a drop, a wee nip
a dram entering the exit wounds with
peace offerings in spanish or some
other language everyone already
forgot with minutes turning to seconds
or that, backwards, if it pleases jesus
on his knees, on a cross, on the town
or just regular old jesus drinking tea