a bag of lemons, a plate of
apricots, a bottle of forgiveness. so wild at it, so silent with it, they hate
to see me. a whit filthy, over a problem, a few giggles about it. it changes in
presence, it unveils in absence, like miracles we miss it. aside a jasmine
rose, a saffron tulip, next to a box of fishing poles; reminiscing, tasting
sweat, at an issue to drown—like new cars, new Diesels, new boots—looking at
it, a long clothesline, attached to an orange building. many holes, many pits,
sipping vodka with a beaver—like rodents, congested in filth, laughing too damn
much.
the first façade, the last squad,
we might keep in touch.
spilt vinegar leaked into friendships—I
could never claim it. a sandal back East, or the rudest Buddhist, most playing
guitar or flute, or a piccolo. watch for birds, or inward tweets, like a
message on brains in a text.
desks and clocks and cedar drawers—the
music, it sounds familiar, most never know what happened!
personal ribbons, claustrophobic insights,
too many damn faces. was it love—or possibility—was it riches?
born by a wind, much courage, more
prowess—the mind lethal in its innocence; strewing collectives, lost in
feelings, at some foreign woman listening to her accent.
memory with unwet senses, at life
like one big parable, watching for pedestals. much toil to hear a scream, a man
lost in sensations, responding like a hyena.
