the truth

you are not seasonal

you are year round

the fever

stuck in my nostrils

stuck in the grass the same 

shade as hostility and armed

conflict dating back to before

creed and conviction and

using cats as 

tvs and radios 

feast your elbows on a sub terrain chalk full of lost 

socks and implied palm tickles 

we are 

inevitable to say the least

hair grows back