Future Hazy, Try Again

life in the back row is past related
to dancers that fancy trauma sisters
where they count pieces of blood
in latin from a sampling of sequoia
that i am bound to donate like it’s a tithe
when skin alters into dragonlike feng shui
only to find a jar of salmon and old scarves
in yearbooks of times i chose to give up
from pink admissions of the working class
on paperwork meant to be read by 4th graders
who run away in the independent cinema
busted, like exploitation in the 1970s
cut in two to be sewn with ceremony
one foot on the boards, one foot in the book