it’s a kiss of
blowsy fate:
the yellow leaves
float and
hold the
moment of
brown-blue
crunch
under new
tennies—
cool
and the kiss
of an old
mattress flipped,
a pumpkin vine
twisted,
a musty basement
coated in
lavender mist—
the breadth
of nascence in
my mouth:
Ginger
I think was
her name
and the ash
of my cigarette
smokes
the blown
sidewalk.
Sep 16, 2017
Sep 16, 2017 at 12:52 PM UTC
it’s a kiss of
blowsy fate:
the yellow leaves
float and
hold the
moment of
brown-blue
crunch
under new
tennies—
cool
and the kiss
of an old
mattress flipped,
a pumpkin vine
twisted,
a musty basement
coated in
lavender mist—
the breadth
of nascence in
my mouth:
Ginger
I think was
her name
and the ash
of my cigarette
smokes
the blown
sidewalk.
