pine tree hands make ginger kisses. they are better than the crowd of girls: nice, but all emotional. the boys carry rocks on their heads and in their eyes; the girl tuck the rocks into athletic bags and into breasts. she is with the boys, competing, the rocks split open to Intelligence and Intellect, and… Continue reading poem: portrait of a lady, january 2019
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i could be bound in a nutshell and count it as infinite space if not for these bad dreams
the last pavilion 