lake

I pick the skin off my face in late August

I have this memory, me and my best friend falling

We fall in front of the Bob Dylan mural in deep snow

She has a little gold rock in her heart She says she holds it there just for me I ask her how

How do you keep this little golden rock safe

Poem on the blades of grass

I am that holy ghost whined and chiseled at by that culture roar of freedom that don't come with no repair log

The sweet bitter sound of your spoon on my back hurt in its own special way now I am the Long John purple and silver harlot

The one with the scratching with the sharp nails

And Waining at that sea of ocean

A killing bird in my best friend's room is all you saw