back from Arkansas now
and I’m roaming the City of Boston on a weekday I love
Boston raindrops wondering
what’s the word for striking a moaned chord in the fog before burning
moaning a struck chord before the fog burns
and yet I open another e-mail looking for availability in
June
so I’m gone all month is what strikes the back of my head
let the waterbottles turn brown before I return
for all I care
the stakes are not that high along the smooth white picket lines
I stopped by the bank for the money from 1976
after the ice cream social on Tuesday
where we talked about potatoes and golden brown sugar
and French music
we were both in a strange woods yesterday
he was asking me how good I kissed
