Night is a hole filled with flowers and
Human sores,
Yet quieter than love’s frigid perfume, like a twisted ankle this gas station
Smells like a pulled weed, nonetheless, dawn is a torn dress
Mechanical and tumbling down a hill: yes of course I’d like
To go to the corner store and microwave a burrito
With you: of course, of course, I’d shoot a couple of holes
Of miniature golf, just as long as hell
Doesn’t swallow me whole right now, seriously if I could
Taste your lungs, put your nape on the tip of my tongue
And roll over
Every empty corner of this room
Emptying my pockets of elephants
And butterflies