it was the month who last spoke the name;
she makes me boil when she flops down and digs in her heels
but she is the most gold-colored soul I’ve seen.
twin mirrors reflecting themselves,
the beginning and the end are like being left behind at a gas station;
it often happens in the mouths of the distracted.
a nondescript monkey, peeling yellow fruit,
taught me how to hide honest answers behind what people assume.
where we live is evaporating, and it goes back for The Book.
warm lips make the name look like a lighthouse.
there is a garden at its heart where true things hum,
a strange and blasé horticulture.