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Jarrett Osborn

Dust of the needle ground to dull
The cast of the street light drawn so pale
Motion is timeless, impossible speed
Contained in the rows we planted the seed

Counting my fingers, an abacus sort
Pointing my index out

You’re so warm it casts a spell, in channels so deep beneath I fell
Wander aimless through the streets, the same direction I pull the string

Pull of the handle, it’s bridging the break
Low paranoia in form I can’t shake
A slap to the cheek and falling in line
Preparing my senses and taking my time