national crescendo wallets

ruination from the brake lines on Alabaster Street, stakes and
cursing in refrigerated stares, sipping oral patients knotted with
tea crisps where fountains glaze over faceplates, sidle country
for morning crescendo wallets never crafted for this ill tide,
escaping like a daytime rest ward that was far too trusting,
too elemental and free, too much a censorship of survival
two young people singing, “a song will never be enough”