so that i remember.
because
before melted steel,
there was hand-made,
better,
buttered
words.
we can decide if new spaces beneath
me can quiver with stilts of metal
pain and paint
at the same time.
saved rain and open
pockets all lead to our
slotted time stamls where
the you and the me and the
they iron out impossibles
from our laugh lines.
i'll publish you now.
