Friday 6/08/2007 12:44:00 AM

The callous needlepoint of memory. In pleasant stitches. Too accurate. The devils. In their horns. Broadway in a bucket. Shovel and pail castle enough. The grandmother in the rocking chair. The tug of the radio at her bosom. While the words decide what they'll mean. While the sentences crash like waves into what's left of us.

The liars... they're the only ones you can trust. Wearing you life in occasions. Fragile gardens coming into bloom. Like skin preparing to open. Swallow us.

They'll say it's over. And yes, it is. But you won't miss them. Just how easy they made it to hate yourself.

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