stained was if stained

leaflets wait to tell me why tight is invisible.

the moment in the kodak attic as the woman asks me to relax my body, is reason enough we find it difficult to understand each other.

these rivers I’m touching are clouded and all I can think about are french things like the bluze.

hes all wet doing yoga in a ballerina uniform letting the moths dance along her lips.

from far everything is sweeter

the metaphone playing cream limits

of ethnical stretches and contractions. a fire pit in a rainstorm.

we are uncertain to make sense of abandoned

chemistry, that we kiss in the street. wood from proof of wood.