Grinder

Grinder

It was time for

the turn around again,

and I had lilies 

in my hair.

I smell electric

behind the eyes,

a paper fire grandstand

almost lost

in orange water rage.

And I’m down 

to bones,

two bones,

one the finger

three times round.

Around.

Dirt tastes cheap

as if it were meant to be,

and I in it panic

with whispers through 

my teeth stagger.

Alone in this sand

I can only think of milk,

and the grinder I’ve become.