the nights that eat rooms.
deep Tom Petty machines,
your boyfriend should know
that I write poems about your
vagina which has a voice.
shabot shalom,
where is your shadow
and where should a question
end before it begins?
I went out to find some light
and found nothing,
but the coward's sound
sits in my hand,
taken from your fear.
maybe this movement
can't afford your philosophy,
connecting to the world on your terms.