Friday, July 17, 2020

In a Sunday Mood

Braids. Dead chickens. A list where everything on it doesn't exist except on the list. Letters from you, long ones, mostly illegible. 

Never. The present tense eating all the metaphors leaving us broken. We unfold together, fools together, we are gold together. Blue orbs, Iris, Irish boys, overs.

A parade in which nobody marching looks at anybody else. Fly-overs, pull-overs. One hand on the small of your back steadying you entering you. Hip bones, happiness. Our shared flesh, folds, and yes. 

Recurring lawfulness as if there were any other kind. You have to say, are you alone or are you not. Synergetically bootstrapping one another into fluid orgasm using language to get us most of the way. 

Willow trees. Watchfulness. In a Sunday mood shall we walk to the church just three doors down? Hymns in you, home in you, in the heart in you healed in you.

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