No need to remind me how to poke.
I make it clear without saying so that
I’m seeing someone try to puke up
something new. Don’t press the
issues you do not want to get
serious with anything.
Then the fish arrived.
He seems to almost know this.
Come to me closer. Now the
grapes morph into dewberries.
See the dawn break like
Don Corleone.
Whimper to me, Sun, about winter’s
Indian Summer. Big V was
prone to avant-poetry. I
holler him up, ask him
how he’s doing.
It’s been a few years.
