by Indigo Tempesta
as to the rest,
there was certainly something forgotten. there was nothing to talk
over on the stone step of the old men's hall. the snow
smelled of branches; i am allergic to elm when it burns.
starting fires with the empty vodka handles might
be the thing that's killing; or it might be that father's day
only comes around in july.
the answer to all those questions is i don't want to but i want to want;
so i do it in between. we all get something out of it; don't complain.
say the things one says; i won't flesh the lines.
i wouldn't put us into this story.
i'm right to frame the steps that way:
all winter, no blood.
Posted on 02/06/2007
Copyright © 2021 Indigo Tempesta