Forgot the thought
Forgot the thought of
something that started with “I think.”
I think I’ll burned. No that’s not it.
Everlasting – a take-from-the-shelf and ring-up hunk.
No noises, even when they slice the bread
(a toddler rounds the corner)
and we’re “bonding” –
all these fountaindrops and drumbeats.
And various lemons.
I remember a dark, happy street,
dark and happy with congestion, and stars
so simple, trying hard not to
look at his crotch.
I forgot to think.
Was the moon over the noodle sign?
I was the moon over the noodle sign.
See, I can floodlight, hover, pretty little
(another simple pretty) hand flower
Count it like a 4-leaf clover.
Forget the thought, how aimlessly
discursive a tiny-print poem which
tends to reveal no secrets.
Even if I have a cup of espresso.
His eyes remained curved
as he took from the shelf, the floor he was
stuck to, and it’s never that
picturesque. Not like looking inside,
what a frame,
where in Paris we’d fuck for hours
under the trees.
Are there trees in Paris?
Yes, the roots swallowed us many times.
This orange leaf might’ve been our love.
No, this orange wind found us a black river
and took it to burn like a memory
into its darkest embers.