Spine

I wake on a cold couch [  ]

in a cold room

and I am a soft nobody [  ] and

I am a snake [  ] and

I slither into the car [ ] and

I drive without passion

past fields of green [  ] lust

as I exhale smoke [  ] and

take off my skin [  ] and simper

at the reds [  ]

I drive violent [  ] without stopping

and I lie in perfect stillness [

] on a cold couch [

] and I ache for forgiveness

and [  ] everything [  ] everything

has gone to bed [  ]

but I wake [  ]

on a cold couch [  ] on a cold night [

] and I die in bushes

like woodlice [ ] and I drive headless [

] without brake lights

[  ] and I am a cold room [  ]

and the road

[  ] wakes within me

and the moon [  ]

is a gooseberry

and the road is gone

sour [  ] and I am driving

for many miles [  ] driving

for many [  ] hours

Dillon Cranston wrote this for a poetry workshop.