year four semester one
The turning of the leaves means nothing when
All my heart wants is absolutely nothing and
Thursday when the club packs up
I run home to you and stomp down the street in 4/4
It’ll, be all, right in the, morning,
Screaming baby
Desperate western
Sun-dried tomatoes, pulp dripping
Down the windowsill down
to the tacky death of our poetic rampage
And I’m not perfect, yet, newly qualified to seek
joy and solace in the small pleasures
Living loose,
Wild
To be is to believe
and I think I could love you for the rest of my life