Laundry and chapped lips,
this is how it hits,
plus sunflowers,
and raw power;
Love is like hammers.
I sit in a big tub lighthouse,
waiting to yell towards raspberry bushes
down at the bottom,
where the toaster is manned
by a faceless forever.
Stealing is in our blood
and we bring it with us
in bulk wherever we go,
sauntering toward Sunday
like we own the motherfucker.