i know why the caged bird smokes a perfect square, backlit, framed in rouged, back alley neon. you exhale, from your small, open window, smoke winding itself around the shoulders,
two is such a lonely number expectation, is like a butterfly sunning kaleidoscope wings in a sunlit woodland on the first day of spring. reality, is like waking alone
isn’t anything car scissors at the crossroads, have sheared the morning, from the end of night and the blue white ghost moon, heavy fogged and branch bound,