well now what do we write After making places made to pout, allowed,
allowed and pushing head against this only tiny worried forehead only tiny creased forming shapes of hearts by the curves of our lined fingertips where i can tell that you are made of turns of football fields or strings of rounded yellow lights turned to sticking; licked-off sugar peas, Or with these shapes of coloured blocks of wood Where You want to make a castle before you turn 26- -
(or you thought you were twenty,love,but couldn't even count that high -- ) And rivers pushing tufts of grass nearby, To vague lines of horizon covering out up on your little-boy mind like the magic of worms who: - grow! back together listing spells of crows croaking biting beneath dark and spangling telephone wire. How can i know that
how can i kiss you directly against the slightly dented texture of your wide and warming heart?