Your blinks were the morning way i say hello
to the trees, nailed and pretentiously painted yellow,
slightly being a song about going home
slightly being mild wrinkles in your hand
holding a thing called a lung
warm and black, full of cancer
in july
of school holidays and false anxiety

muting an eye by an eye,
you only have two, oh, me too.
And another song in september
where i put my ears in a bank
near the tiny window smells like plastic
in my drink,
melting like meisjes in the fingers
of whatever meaning she had or hadn't grown up
in a ***
belonged to mary jane

a best friend of many
in a windy country full of
strangers'
hearts and appropriations
dancing like smokes
around the neck of a
heaty dragon,
dreamy sore throat and psychologist's smile.