They glare,
they stare,
I sigh.
they stare,
I sigh.
Light is lobbed to the leaves and they cradle it
In the evening they throw it back to the sun
whose tendrils collect it
then go home
I think peace looks like:
driving on the highway from College Park
listening to “White Ferrari”
by Frank Ocean
Monday
Rejection
Run late
Elections
It’s a Friday
Let's lie down
We’ll figure
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