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
elephants and butterflies
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