These mid-dawn briefings won’t sustain. So that people
will say you’re pretty. “She’s pretty” as in
the rest might follow. But an end of the world
copies us. You will not also dream the flesh-bone shapes:
she’s “having the look of access.” Has a stare of errors. I leave
to you myself. Also spied in sequence, no longer
tucked in but wore the cape with a mimicking
addictive flair. You forgot about me at the exact point
we never met. There flowed the ice alcohol in the desert
and the dinner follow-up spree. We became enough vodka
cranberry to peel and clean open the shapes of baked-on heat.
|
return to S H A M P O O 13