Eratio Editions: The White Album

The White Album
Glass Onion
What fucks should’ve been,
what drugs should’ve cured,
what art couldn’t win, what
time I was bored, shoot out
when I feel my finger on your
trigger (“you,” myself, strangers)
so that I am relieved to find
myself outside myself once
again, like an astral entity
that’s plumbed Bermuda’s
Triangle weeks at a time—
guns, roses, bent-back tulips,
dove-tails, duck-tails, fucks.
All delicate as glass but guns;
parts in parts like an onion.
The parts are more mine than
ours, always bring tears to us;
for this, I make amends.
E·ratio Editions 11