I entered her
last night. Through parted limbs, then
Hard back books watching.
We wrote a story for them.
I told her that I never saw them
read. The ancient people.
I bore holes in their heads while
bailed strong hay fields
branded our hamburger.
They could remove sexual organs
by blood asphyxiation,
dry fruit in plastic air,
grow meat in sloppy hog mud,
they did it.
They did everything with books
but listen to their stories.
She came down from composition.
Pink panties, black casual,
about my pork fields and grease.
One day, we will be ancient. Will the books
Will we be decorated in hard backs?
We laid, backs hard on thin, white sheets.
Skinny lips impressing lit
cigarettes, kissed wet from
We drank for the moon we remembered.
The pale one that danced with
before we lost the Others.
The pretty little foster kids.
5am lost the luster. So, we stopped.
I chose blue for my tears, and left.
She chose white sheets
sprinkled with biography.