poem: the third boy is just myth

along the lighted corridors he turned and smiled slightly:

that odd thing girls do when they manufacture a crush for a boy that

they don’t really like, or care about. along the pagan corridors

of the forest, and among the thyme and sticky ryegrass he takes

her hand

he presses her fingers carefully to his lips. There are lackluster spirits

inside him; he is all a riot to the swinging, shining ones; he believes

in nothing, everything. The hardest thing: when you are

thinking of someone who is surely not thinking of you; the animated

heroine holds up blank pastel hands

and wails, the stitching inside her mouth undone and made guttural.

so what did you think of the movie he asked.

he has a future: she is still watching boys in black coats

come in from the snow. Wordplay is very cheap,

please reconsider me a good decent liar; all these boys

just fresh blood nightly wiped away from my skull,

their daisies strong inside my curled, clenched hands.

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