First to
starch out those faith wrinkles and your
long lines of time prattle
ancient hands melting
and your thin ribbon legs
being wrapped into uneven knots
you could barely crawl
into your proclaimed lock and key.
friends use friends you’ve said
and for years I’ve heard
your eyes screaming sweet nothings
nothing is anything more or less
than the paint that has been caked on my walls for years.
there was a bouncing orifice,
made of long expansions of hair and childhood letters,
so giddily it would frolic between sidewalk cracks, lake fronts,
covered in sand and eventually filled with the ever flooding filing system that is
a daily cup of coffee and a cigarette conversation
between myself and imaginary you