Clatter-drawn, drawn by hail.In rain the stones go soft and feral.You’re ferocious in trauma’s pelt,prickly skins each generationpasses down, heavy and re-stitched.

What Happens in Hour Four? I’m paying attention to the lyrics in this song  which go you can’t…always get…what you want…  but

Dirty light in the tiny hours. Rubbed myself off on a fire hydrant in the shadows. For want of a more accessible