I just fished a novel with
the above title. The spike
of John Hancock is Franz
Ferdinand (“beautiful boys on
a beautiful dancefloor”) and
nothing matters now. The window
across the river at your
face does not close. Never
closes. But it keeps changing. It
taps my spirit. It is warm-armed/fingered.
Well, it’s obvious rain for the weekend.
Why pillows always goalpost (“guitar”). 12:55.
Same bicycles in the median. Orange
coat with blond hair (sip). I am sipping
gold. One jogger passes three joggers
(the more I see the less I know).
Our wall. When we sat on that very bench what
was our explanation? No more. No way.
How we missed four holes in the cloud.
One jogger on the bridge. A squirrel with a
messed-up tail meets another at the closest tree,
runs up, runs down, digs a little, runs back up.
I love you.
