in the distance a half-full moon
half-empty, to a pessimist
pours out the stream of its bourgeois sand
you and your hair have long spikes
a child's drawing of the sun
we have tamed our evenings now
and anything can be said
holding up our hearts like playing cards tethered to a picket in the puny universe of lawn
in the secret cave of my thoughts,
a place dripping with water
I rely on you as a towel lies on sand
you are my invitation to sleep
faster, and for longer,
and while doing other things
behind the streaming glass walls of the house there will be hell to pay, perhaps but then again it is lonely out there except for the birds and the animals, and green things
around our bed foothills mount
we are holding up our business cards
like two people playing twenty questions where nobody wants to win
cathoel jorss
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