soft blue tongues, tangled around lyrics
about alliteration and farming and chickadee streets,
even though all of us are Brooklyn blueberries,
burnt on donkeys and The Levee
where Ian works but doesn't share his care.
against your mouth, I still write
with queues in the night,
making the new people hear
the light of the books in wallets.
goddamn my hair
that I grab as my Macbook Pro charges
in a corner of applause and thanks,
this is, this us, this umm, this ugh,
usually what we do for an hour and a half
is the best stairwell sex combined
with one-hundred years of lauded laughter,
but how will I know
until the absolute end?