Tuesday, July 15, 2014

jason molina

Flat muted boy of the woods, trailed off
behind wolves so well you knew every groove in the nick,
hid your marbles, toy guns, bled into forest colors, grew arms
leaves, every boy’s dream, all train song, delphinium,
lost every minor key, all your songs, most of Memphis
to the her, January now in the bunchgrass, bottle from
the first chord beyond the moon you loved so female-legged, shapely.