A block of soap carved to look like Pan and that's just what came in the mail a volcano under those flip flops kisses spilling off the water-wheel Green becomes a stillness leftover in the late-born effluence of a decade's worth of smoke and flat beer (I can't get any air) because there was no acoustic guitar just dust scraped off an anxious moth's wings
From The Nervous Filaments by David Dodd Lee. Copyright © 2010 by David Dodd Lee. Used by permission of Four Way Books. All rights reserved.