Pretty little white assholes in a vase
baby’s-breath I fondly sort of hate them
the first truly warm day of the year
around seven pm on April twelfth
sundown is a batch of Turkish coffee
served in the small cup of my hair
I heard you say jealousy is interesting
on the phone in the other room while a
helicopter bothered the dead husks of flowers
I think of people fucking onscreen I think
of houses on wheels and one very buoyant
seagull bobs across the pith of the moon
the highway trickles south into a pear of anguish
by the port a dockworker pauses to focus
really focus on affairs of the heart
why is today the day Paul Dano appears
sitting on a bench in Prospect Park and why
am I so sticky and cranky under the arms
frankly I am not moved by the obvious
ways my neighbor’s smoking has destroyed her
I try imagining trees without their midriffs
but that’s just a bush the clouds blacken
along the hill I return to you more beautiful

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