I like poetry but it is a dung cart. I like being in love but that is a dung cart too. I have to be content with things that are dung carts although I really want something that is not a dung cart.

Moon, refrigerate the weeping child
and guard his stony brook.
There is no thing between the woods

Remain saturated to the point of hegemony,
all these trees tinged with dropsy dystopia,
heart on my sleeve bridging its last beat

So, if I were to cup your alibi in my hands, softly as moth- dust & to slip its squirming, body below my tongue, where would these envelopes end up?

Hop hop hop
goes the busy noun
following its chosen object
around like an angry bee, but mor

jumper cables in bloom
die hard fans weigh in on the victory
it means nothing