mardi, octobre 19, 2004


Hot in here.
The air is close
Like winter
And t-shrts with whiteness.
There are cups in here
Holding bits of water
With strong teeth. We
Hold each his own.

Sit here
For forty five minutes
There’s tea and cookies
And a look with
That tells me I
Am watched
Embrace me,
Don’t waste me, don’t store, or fold or cajole me.
Take me up, your favorite sweater.
Wear me out
And out.