5.

Never enough room for the inks mirror glass best friend soup cans ex movie stubs collaborator that etch from the same copper plate. Not the best metal, carve scratch acid bath. Perhaps fingernails, mine belong to the days when flat tires froze to the street. Rubber on asphalt. Your bed: maroon cotton cream cinder. I scramble to convert moods to charms. Sponge, scum, someone cleaned the showers. A three-figure army lays claim, and I not among a single one of them.