i like you she says. i do.


hydroptic red in early spring, night blossoms a swale

of invisible men. perverts, scrim in the visible, blowsy

on breath as if nosey landscape loggia:

as finches we crozzled fine necks at supine

sky, a slanted fuck-gyrus, bruised after-that.


double towns & subtextual glances sort of meant hi! but

like explorers the rest is hoverish, sun-drunk, oz ellipses.

best hope is some unicorn gone gimbaled, feint, & bolus.

abstract beer. pained expressions. a muted orgasm.

then occupy-economics.


i don’t like you she says. too.