That was a spooky step
Some kind of
Whirling me like a spinning top
A dreidel on warm wood
Make a cord
I stayed full, a friend close by
Repeat an obsession and it becomes a ratio to your world
I do not like ratio talk,
I think of using either nausea or plums,
or other soft sweet orbs
I miss the smell of blue on someone who is blissed out
But this ratio, Moths and me
It is pure trust, I see time in their spins
Dusty twin wings, the moths are at the moment we met
it is again
and again it is normalized, like pear cake in your warm
I would take my cousins to the levee and call it the beach
Wet wake, a blonde plum.
A sherbert starfish smile shining from the West.
A magical trust blooms in the fertile behind-clouds
You can make me lie if you don’t know.
How do you remember those moments?
Those minutes that I only think of
when I think of you
Hurricanes, being seventeen in a Southern fall
The only monument I have to you
are those blue-green clogs you ordered because you liked mine
sitting on your porch in their eBay package
I sat there at the bus stop in the green rain
I thought about how I would always be waiting for you
The dark licorice plums are ripening under their own magnetism.
Passing cars zoom by and they mirror
the deep personality of my stomach.
I miss you all over again.
I get on the bus
Actually, I have two monuments to you.
Besides the never-worn clogs, I listen to the David Holmes album you thought I would like.
I should not listen to it so much
I should not forget you
I try to slip into the magical trust you have for me, still
A warm heart beats for you (all) and smells like your medication
I try so hard not to burst out Crayon Schemes,
you would interpret in your macro scale. Your cloud logic.
Do you want a visit, stay?
Russ, do you miss feeling rolling marble?
The veil today is significant
This is the first time I have stepped outside today
It is wet and you are tracing lines in the Netto parking lot.
Today you are closer, like mail