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this one has sex in it
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Bad poetry we’re not even doves but let’s say we were
it’s still two doves in a Texas desert
one is practically mute and maybe the other drinks
quite a bit trying to decide if it’s easier to fly wet
depressingly white it’s like two
Greek columns one
wants to tumble down together the other
trying to fall with some notion of historical accuracy
to the first doric column. You can scream poetry into as many bottles
as you can hold in one shaking talon, West Texas does not judge you
any more, or any less than it did before.
And when we fuck it’s like we’re
sending up fewer and fewer of these yellow sparks
hoping to ignite something that has already left this whole fucking town.
