Forgot the thought

Forgot the thought of something that started with “I think.” I’ll...burned. 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 (so simple). 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.