Where does that bottle end and my hand begin
Shapes fuse.
That is why I
Drink.
You in my maroon flannel shirt turn into a boat
I sink my head
In your cupped
Hands, you drink.
Me in your ripped dress shirt leaning over the ledge
To feel the purple
Of the beveled hills
Touch my cheek.
I do not sense you standing there, fingering a pack
Why are you
So bright
It hurts to look.
Before we speak to anyone they are layered objects
Everyone is beautiful
I shake my head no
Don’t say that.
We can never find a real painting to live happily for
Just eat this cold
Dinner of cherry soda
And fingerling potatoes.
Shapes fuse.
That is why I
Drink.
You in my maroon flannel shirt turn into a boat
I sink my head
In your cupped
Hands, you drink.
Me in your ripped dress shirt leaning over the ledge
To feel the purple
Of the beveled hills
Touch my cheek.
I do not sense you standing there, fingering a pack
Why are you
So bright
It hurts to look.
Before we speak to anyone they are layered objects
Everyone is beautiful
I shake my head no
Don’t say that.
We can never find a real painting to live happily for
Just eat this cold
Dinner of cherry soda
And fingerling potatoes.
4 comments:
jayinee, this stuff is so terrific. i think maroon is great. wonderful layers, of the real and the optional i love this stuff
from thomas, that was
from thomas, that was
thanks tom, you are made of encouragement foam
-Jayinee
Post a Comment