Sultry sighs and bags worn heavy,

Topical fantasy makes way for the sun.

Her love was a prison, marked Soviet Kitsch

with rolling white snowhills and blankets of flesh


I tumbled her dry, and with wrinkled fingers

She wrote me a note, slipped it into my pack

It read:


an unexplainable emotional response to the awareness

of the universe.”

The dots on the page pull together connected

And the flowers felt more beautiful in retrospect


She came to me at random

Rambling of circumstance and fortuity—

And left in a haze of alcohol and words blooming


To meet again, at the death of a friend

A symbol of the summer past

Seems terribly perfect, sob heaps pooling

as they do


A new story to grow out of months gone by



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