you’re all wine and horses. parasols on stilts in a squall of calm.
you lurch like a pidgeon at a love note. cooped in your wide arches.
I’ve seen you sleep through the rapture of your own demise
to capture the spark of your rascal for harvest.
you gloom if it’s pretty. but you never know the difference.
that’s why we met on a hill full of holes.

“ wells “
they call ‘em ‘round here.
but they never
answer.

and that’s got you spooked.

Like I don’t know.