worlds alive with the snap and bubble of possibility
where pinks often belong equally to sky and to body
but the bright lights can still flicker out all the time
people must tell you how beautiful you are all the time

if i seem a little fuckoffish it's because i'm fructified
four minutes of watching your shadow beat the wall
then promising myself try harder to believe in fairies
wide critical eyes and hair the color of my pillow cases

your graph paper penmanship impeccable acute angles
your chocolate cake weighing on the hollow of my back
your seriously taking aim but too generous to really shoot
your reason for mourning another new yorker subscription

let's never go back to vegas baby
how do you fold his shirts after laundry