The trees drip
Like blood
On a Sunday afternoon
Peaceful
Like butter
Melting
Into sleep
So thick
Larger than my head
Sometimes it makes me laugh
The gasp
The jerk
The sickness
Then I
Feel
Something
Malevolent
Repulsive
A thought
Sunday afternoon should be a better place
The sheds have numbers on
Like a code
Little houses
People don't sleep in
Numbers
Counting down time
You have to find things to see
I tell Alice
She knows
We go out in the puddles
Investigating
Uncovering what no one wants to see
Her sticky little fingers
Probe around the lid of reality
Who’s Glass
A metal scroll
How do we make sense of that
Turn it into letters
Easy, spill it like blood claps Alice
And so we do
The leaves walk like feet
Bouncing off of banjo strings
We take the hit
Go down
Like blood on a Sunday afternoon.
