over your pretty head;
self-destructive in buildings
as the stars move upon shoulders
and shadows.
I wonder what the world will look like on September 21st
or thirty-five days after that,
as the ocean gets bigger;
I swear, last night we were right.
on the electric line,
the yankee wire,
sing old country tunes as some signals south,
and
we
fall faster,
fall further, quiety
before it gets light.
there's a radio in the corner
with a human voice underneath.
have you ever been to the top of my lungs?
call me if you are unable to sleep,
like me.
as the ocean gets bigger each year,
and we are reminded, of eminency, or lack thereof, indeed,
well, passion comes from suffering, I guess.