pinkstars.txt

there's a day
the stove will be off
the dog, lazy and subdued
but this burnt and bitten hand
knows only speed.
it cannot tap,
it cannot sway,
it cannot bunt.
it swings for the fences
hooks, cuts and thrusts.
"hell if i play that game again"
said the digits to the whole.

but a hand jailed from the body
lies cold on the floor.
always wanting (never having)
more, more, more.