but there is sunday morning gold that drapes 'cross his shoulders
diner coffee, hot & black
beautiful women
an anywhere
cats in windows
dog copilots
the soft waves his eyes make
over my island body
stoned complacency
sweet wine
the legend of kerouac
bukowski outliving them all
future poetry
65 degrees and breezy
fruit
when he says it, any of it
when i say it and mean it
when my chest blooms
flowers of chance
over wrought iron bones
and i am, at once,
a garden.
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