poetry

you know that
baby swallows make silver ripples
in wild rivers to court reeds?

Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time

a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

the strands of your hair on the bathroom tiles aren’t sketching defeat. that’s you spitting disease in the face with another day you’ve woken up to.

Okay, picture this: We’re in an elevator. The elevator shuts down. It doesn’t matter where we’re going, only that we’re alone.

Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.

It recommended
soft porn, as gentle prodding and petting parent
to parent might calm and soothe the kid.

my friends’ fathers are
dropping
I mean dying
like flies

Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time