I Believe As Much As Little, That’s The Title, The Title Is That
When you aren’t surprised by love in a tent you’re asking, asked about the digital blinking, window hangman or woman lips, hips hung on designer indecision, the silence broken by eyelids whether they’re why or how. She turns herself so I see the apple, one gaunt white cat against a dead speaker on the mantle, the memory.
It’s The New Year & No One
The first sentence eyebrows a toaster oven while she who is the second girlfriend coughs from a couch less than whatever less is further away. There is a Roman candle fire outside an inherited grandmother’s house across from Who isn’t across? There are second story orange groves evading opinions. In this way there is olding: the new way of aging, again.
We Take Tickets
My nails are out of forever stamps. My skin is a cross street. The third sentence is blood without cell taxes. The last is for less than we’re riding the train that circles itself.
Inside Feels Less Alone
It takes to wont. It takes again. It can’t it itself without others. Who bothers? We. The sixth sentence does sit-ups fucking itself without. In this way there is blinking; I remember less, as much as more was.