I trust
the village chin. We are both in bloom
as the
dropped pie. This is love
this is
perhaps the least still of things.
We watch
the loom in the hands of a genius
while I
blow canned air at cherries. I take Fridays off.
As one
truly who champions herself
walk with
me. I’ll bring a pinwheel in case there’s
wind. I’ll be eyeshadow and
my country lips and sourness.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment