On the Veranda
It was almost like a painting in the sun.
We had stepped out of nothing and into life.
If the men weren’t handsome,
I don’t remember. If a person turns
into poison, I would rather forget.
How do I walk back to summer
and always leave myself somewhere else.
I go dark like the sea.
The green highways of the mind.
You will want to touch them.
You will want to start over with time
(but you can’t). Yeah, yeah.
Even memory changes from a fist
to a chocolate in bed. Does it matter?
The black Cucinellis left on the veranda
where we ash away the days.
See you in eight years.
Discussion about this post
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soft!!!!!!
A nostagia of the present here?