Longest time I could not get in a car, this was part refusal, but mostly fear, if I don’t get in, maybe you’re still here, now I don’t have to face unlucky stars, I’ll just stay here in my room writing you, going for you like a fish to a hook, spinning and unspinning my sonnet book, a hunchbacked skeleton in peasant tomb that crumbles to dust like those Kansas crops of this depression’s grand wine mixing bowl that craves for rich life by di’monding coal. Spinning and falling with a sudden stop, those are the cruel laws of gravity, expands universal depravity.