Finding the French in it,
the building bows its head.
“I love you” after a long silence
in front of SF Fashion; the
white wake like summer,
its flag limp, a haze, a few bugs
and a fingerling cloud. The
sausage factory
blown out of proportion,
ere its associated mysteries.
“But I’m happy!”
“Think of it.” “It’s
really a swell life.”
“What’s going on on your floor?”
I understand the blossoming
of all hell breaking loose. Licking
one finger and pointing it
at the moon. The moon blinking.
The moon sitting down to take a little break.
A gap through the grape’s bruises,
bluer than....
Apricots, pineapples, asparagus.
And a fresh bowl of marbles. Gouttes
d’eau sur pierres brûlantes.
How much of a prick
most artists are. Esp
ecially to their spouses.
“It’s not really that bad.”
“No, it’s not really that bad.”
“I didn’t think so.”
Namedropping at dusk.
Leaving no stone un
touched.
