mist and white flowers
I sip from your sleep, before
the moon disappears
—
a stoned, dead Summer.
Trucks snail the road wearily
cows chew a few suns
—
river oh river
I have tried to escape, but
memory and ghosts…
—
standing on my stairs
I expect a thunderstorm
if not a blue corpse
—
truths are many, for
us to pass summers, only
lies for this winter.
