we spend so much time

in the tugs of war

breaching the doors of love

casualties of misunderstandings

and the living are standing 

bruised singing the blues

Dizzy wailing breath

waking the dead and ushering the living

“that brother is bad.” he said.

I have one for you, pops, I’ll send it tomorrow—I said yesterday.

but that its,

improv is measured in days

we equate to life

echoes of time.