greenland and beneath me, you lay like a fingerprint jewel. a world of white dreams, clasped to a quiet pause. man has not touched you here. like a wish not yet whispered,
baby capers i knew a girl once, who kept a spunk jar. one that she filled from cold morning condoms, or spat leisurely from her hot mouth. originally, it had contained tartare sauce
simplicity children wave at people on trains, because they know there’s no harm in waving. in saving the day, from the way away from harmony. children chase birds,
sleeping lines the track lines of recent dreaming, are etched into your skin like yesterday’s fossils. speaking silent of the inconvenience of mornings, plucked from our own,
