it was under a cold November sky when it happened/she smelled of fragrant shampoo and a slight hint of mashed potatoes/I don’t usually like mashed potatoes/but today they are my favorite/with lashes fluttering against cheeks/it was a zing/so natural/that I thought it must have been an illusion/but no/it was very real/the moment that your lips/touched mine.
front lawns
frogs
crochet projects
and tears
bring mind to your
fairytale girl
she laughs like a poet would (and does)
and moves my fingers
on the ukulele strings
three and angry/says the moaning sky/they follow you/then play the music/that sticks in your head/just so they can cackle/and watch you squirm/they cater/ to our lady of the underworld/the fates/give to none/and take from all.
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