It may be a Thursday of the muffled variety;
the plastic of the cup bent to the angle of your words,
your modulation drifting off along the rim
dappled with sprite. I guess that mostly sums up
the premise. Doesn't it? Cooling stomach,
atmosphere that can flake itself away
from the motor-cults, a serious crow
roving its neck like the search for a lost interview;
we shine in the baggy sunlight,
and I realize that I would make a house with you
out of legos, and you would sneeze if I told you.