because I can cool his head with mine.
-
he clucks, I cluck. we are deep into our clucking.
-
from space. the same way it comes to animals.
-
that other thing is between you and god.
-
item: a nicotine patch, from father’s arm, in the event you find yourself playing with dolls.
-
item: we don’t have that kind of time.
-
object sadness, not yet coined, is a peephole I can’t put my finger on.
-
colloquialism is more than extra love for the hatchet.
-
there’s nothing left to swallow the tip of his tongue.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 2:38 PM UTC
because I can cool his head with mine.
-
he clucks, I cluck. we are deep into our clucking.
-
from space. the same way it comes to animals.
-
that other thing is between you and god.
-
item: a nicotine patch, from father’s arm, in the event you find yourself playing with dolls.
-
item: we don’t have that kind of time.
-
object sadness, not yet coined, is a peephole I can’t put my finger on.
-
colloquialism is more than extra love for the hatchet.
-
there’s nothing left to swallow the tip of his tongue.
Request permission to use this poem