When I’m not there, you know, really
there.
The way we are
at new breakfast joints,
packing it all into our oracular crates.
Her squirming gets so abstract
mons a mons
and – you know, really -
no one in between,
the sheets tonight.
Our smile is weary,
no longer round.
My farming is no good
I need green new tractors
and bt corn.
In the end all i’ve got
are hoes, spades and manure.
–
tjq
