night is filled with flowers and human sores,
yet quieter than love’s frigid perfume. like a twisted ankle this gas station
smells like a pulled weed. nonetheless, dawn is a torn dress
mechanical and tumbling down a hill: yes, of course i’d like
to go to the corner store and microwave a burrito
with you: and of course, of course, i’d shoot a couple of holes
of miniature golf: just as long as hell
doesn’t swallow me whole right now. seriously, if i could
taste your lung’s breath, put your nape on the tip of my tongue
and roll over
every empty corner of this room
emptying my pockets of elephants
and butterflies