Bleached bone trees
like holding hand "we"s
in a town where
only ghosts live
in houses near factory smells.
A checkpoint town
the blue blues blue one
with brightly colored and
brown boxes in front
all smashed in at once
like a sad, beautiful
photograph.
Bleached bone MEs
because of holding hand "we"s
on the inside out reality.
Meet me there
so our tangled up veins
can bind that waste of
bashed-up boxes.