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.