burn the coffee, the potatoes, then skin nectarines as you wander the town
end over end grace the accordion playing & grace its player for he is a mirror grace
be the tragedies large & small, buildings & broken heels to step from the young cashier &
through the doors in Tübingen means you burn a match, your lips, & the smoke curls
your legs grace the silver flask & awkward veil, her third fitting of the week grace of course
the jumper jumping through this history you peel, you save each label from the boxes
you smoke surely grace the firemen, the policemen the broken nail as chord, evenly graced
wedding & funeral equally so misfed & green gone south on a dead-end street