thunderbirds are actually cats. sorry. you should have been told sooner.


No, not "home" -- you haven't even bought
a real lamp. Friends you tell them all of
flesh and local compromise, this act is
act this, ignore that, silly rabbit:
you are not where I reach at in sleep.
I sign birthday cards on the night bus.
Sundays I jar the apple mash for Bea.
When you say always with the fucking
apples, you mean: "Bea? Listen. On you
he stews so much that he cuds this new
love. Chews later. Who does that shit!
Love has a half life and molders or
something." And so we go, each among the
other, a game of open hand demand, with
marbles suspected beneath the skin.
We suspect sex on a train in the woods.
Maybe a bad call, a drunk walk in April snow,
a boxing match to story up the scar you
won't. What want do you hoist and schlep
to town? What will you bet? This, he says,
and scoots across a tin of yellow mints.
Okay? We lift our cards, avoid the tell.
We try to guess whatever look we share.

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