I don't care that you
dreamed about me.
a not-so-great man
once oh-so-greatly said,
"I don't think about you at all."
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fine young poet
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See Alla fluorescent full moon guided {us} quilted moths. gravel crunched, nails clicked. where the wall meets the sidewalk leaked the giggle of a shared secret. we've encrypted these moments like the finger
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a quip - the last of the rarest jokes on earth like snowfall > April showers - befell. We shared this moment the way two people watch a performance of King Lear.
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it's a hard thing, this lucid living: sitting on a donated couch in an already-sold house with someone whose grave I had just visited. "but I've been to your grave," the words unspun from tangled teet
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