Notes on unconcerned truths:

[guesswho_i_am]

I have a collection of fingernails beneath my door
White lies don't ask what they don't tell
of me, don't sick the sink
the ship in creaks that hum those
nice old shadow tunes
Whistling quarters turn corners
They flip a feat in great heights
without fear you echo for hollow endings
no conclusion in spots over
a field of cellos serenading
a pocket full of faded flowers
mourning their plastic replacements

I spent a cart on railways
I played a plucked violin
under the umbrella of yellow rainboots
I write I wrote
I dance terribly in piles
of fingernails I light a derailed fire.