did i tell you truthfully about
this little faggot boy whose bloody
shotted up eyes
will find no fertility in me?
i'll tell you
no more.
it's for him to find no
soft dark soil
in my lap, nothing for
his wiry
charcoal
head.
"poets fuck around with words."
your hair is lit purple.
you're a flame.
you're the slow grief of the ocean kissing the
better part of
northern california, you're the haze spreading from
the
lip
of the
horizon.
i won't tell you anything.
his hands are losing themselves to the wind.
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