waiting for my pinto pilaf. the snow
crackles unanimously like hailstorms.
marble windows barking. the
bay seems dull bluish, dull grayish, or dull whitish.
several boats pore over it...
I could show you my life in 200 poems.
several years’ worth. “he’d never an ounce of
credibility,” nods one profile. you can just make out
a halo over it, or swirling thru it...
got plenty of revisionist sleep last night
after arguing about doppelgängers.
this is not a diary entry. this is reality.
I took off my shirt and nearly walked out the door.
but I’ve certainly been a domestic sloth. my
heart heals slowly when there’s a need to
reach around and feel my face, its nose
tangled up in the lavender that sprung from the wall.
I’ve been trying to appreciate being alone
and I’ve been very successful. which makes
the perfect boyfriend better.
here he is rounding the hallway corner,
no more antibiotics,
a nice change of pace,
200 ghosts spitting ice.
and here we are asleep on the greenish couch we cuddle upon.
