i like those lakes in elliot’s bed. i love your nose the telephone, in the stairs
caroling almost like milk

—-
i want to wake you up to talk about landscape
it’s there-there on girls’ faces, ponds with a chair,
the lovely black, graphic novels about Scandinavia, MDMA, a beast…
describe your earliest memory.
perfect, shy, painful and no one is an American petal. a sunny room
recedes into his head like bark and the blue veins, almost lewdly thick blue canals of memory. it is so entirely unfocused and I cried, shed tears for the moon. I am meticulously cutting holes in his chest as in a deep breath-
That’s it. My literary malfunction is chopping at the snow, ankle-deep