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torchlight, burning through your half-lit iris
Folder:
Bad poetry your beauty is a body of words
those that are lit most brightly: Limerance, Nihilarian.
Methylone, gallivant,
Godspeed.
and what if I wrote about that tiny porch
still sitting in Texas
painted onto the Earth? At least, I hope it's there just
as you remember boeotian and stentorian, not having yet blown away
like places have before.
My fingertips have only tasted briefly
your perambulations
your skirt a button blue
whatever buttons have to do with us, any
way. Tummy like an iridescent pearl tucked
inside of a clamshell. You are an unlit bulb in an attic
eyes filled with old things
trying to lure me out of
this grand solipsism.
