Emotions, like currents and eddies.
Selassie, blowin' in the wind, he say, what the music say.
Tears rolling down cheeks into dirty dishwater, empty house.
Love poetry, thought of writing love poetry, and stopped short
at imperfections.
Mine, yours?
Thought once I needed out to fix myself to love.
Who know what is, what is.
Ice cream, travelled roads, refried beans, your eyes, your tears
once wept, all these things bring mine.
Don't know, but i've been told, I've been left to die, again.
Eyes sweep over memories of buttocks, lips, tender nips
at napes of necks in twilight grayish nights, of sex.
Blackbird's words, dead of night, to sleep is not to dream,
or to lie by you, ever, anymore.