A Warm Enough Question
The months flicker. I confiscate black magic & relief. Some evenings, it’s quicksand & ideas rough with lashes. My mood is a mystery, a flying white fire of conversation. These are mouths & necks, these are just pictures: casual summer dresses fading to night scars in sweaty street clothes, greedy sex & theft. The impulse to devour is rift & rapture, fear without doubts. Denial is not closure. Enter any suggestion—whispered comfort if the killing heals. Grandmother’s road, a gold field. Every piece of agreement desires corruption, satisfaction pockets its own cost. I maintain a tiny dwelling made from sun-bone strings & art. I think I know what’s downtown. A new century? I don’t want to rewrite the city.