the broken harp showed its distain for being misunderstood
asking the ticking time to stop ticking only made for less time told
nobody’s listening but the albatross batting around inside a foolish heart before departure
swinging ligature of sensual ideologies; not one piece left alone in the sunlight
to whither like neglected red apples; grey dapples like those of appaloosas are the people craning their necks around the tunnels—their backs black from the rails like the floors of burning forests
snapping fingers have you swooning over men with dapper hats and toes of singing leather
girls with tiny wrists remind you of home
lavender droplets of tears or sweat; remind them of time past into arms of new
stolen away to fragile bodied, dense haired gypsy queens, you take to picking pockets on the streets of Montmartre; kicked shins violins sound like stone scraping skin
backward acres; kinked wire into bicycle spokes make forward moving motions easier for girls on foot
at the bottom of the world they join the desert highway; the rush of wind makes harmonies for the haunted through the mouse holes in the screen door
heaving breasts of dust make way for a purpose; cracks in the floor let it all be seen by the air below
we remembered the color of the bruise on her knee when she slipped in the snow next to the willow tree, the way it turned a sunset hue; it flashed to the surface like a buried trouble as she danced in a dress
thirst has no memory when the bearer of affection is a water sign
entanglement of romantics are loosened to the arms of admired marionettes when poetics tumble from lips to heart shaped bruises; fall asleep half undressed instead of clothed in despair
